The Clank With the Golden Gun
by ImperialGirl
Summary: Sequel to "On Her Undying Majesty's Secret Service". Ardsley and Melisande, British Intelligence, are back! A mysterious nobleman, a high-stakes game, nobles from across Europa invited to a mysterious meeting, and a Wulfenbach crashes the party...
1. Chapter 1

1

**The Clank with the Golden Gun**

Characters: Ardsley Wooster/OFC, Gilgamesh Wulfenbach, Boris Dolokov, Trelawney Thorpe, Klaus Wulfenbach, and a whole boatload of OCs.

This is a sequel/follow up to "On Her Undying Majesty's Secret Service", set several months before "Girl Genius" begins. You should probably read that fic before reading this one, or you will be hopelessly confused. Original Girl Genius characters were created by Phil and Kaja Foglio. Original characters created by me. Everything (including the O.C.s if they want them) belongs to Studio Foglio. I'm just playing around. (And everything inspired by Ian Fleming is used for gaslamp fantasy parody/tribute purposes, with respect. Please don't sue.)

"One of the many advantages of my single state–I might be an old spinster, but at least I shall never be a widow."

Melisande Velyaminova Wooster's china teacup (more ladylike than a _podstaniki_, but correspondingly more awkward) hit her saucer with a clatter at Dame Delilah Quartermain's words and she bit back a gasp as the tea sloshed onto her fingers.

There was a sharp _tsk _from the third woman at the tea table. "Given the circumstances of your niece-in-law, Lilah, that's hardly a politic observation." Trelawney Thorpe, Spark of the Realm (it was as impossible to think of her without the soubriquet as it was not to tack on 'Gentleman Adventurer!' to any mention of Othar Trygvassen) was a lady of middle years, steel-colored hair that had once been dark as Melisande's own, and imposing height, and she dominated the tea-table in her old friend and comrade's parlour as firmly as she'd commandeered the bridge of the renegade Duke of Orkney's glass dirigible. "Have you had word lately of your husband's situation, Mrs. Wooster?"

Over a year on and she still felt a happy warmth at being addressed as Ardsley's wife. Not, of course, that it made up entirely for having seen him only once since her arrival in England. "No, but then, as you know, Miss Thorpe, I'm not entirely in the confidence of British Intelligence. Having been Secret Police does, to some degree, put a damper on my relations with Lord M's office."

"Despite his relations with your godmother." Along with the usual Sparkish confidence, Trelawney Thorpe also had their apparently-genetic lack of tact. "Don't worry. Lord M_ only chooses the best for these sorts of things. I'm sure your husband will be fine. Assuming of course there aren't any laboratory accidents. Most Sparks who've lived even as long as young Wulfenbach are reasonably careful about more valuable minions, but of course these things do happen."

"Indeed, sometimes experiments simply don't go as planned." Few people knew that while Trelawney Thorpe did indeed invent the more spectacular devices described in the "Girl Adventurer" pulp novels bearing her name, most of the inventions she'd utilized in her adventures came from the same source as those the far-less-celebrated agents used, Q Branch of the Secret Intelligence Service. Thanks to the books, the name of one of Q Branch's (now retired) spark-inventors was almost as well-known as the titular heroine's–Delilah Quartermain, inventrix and not quite as mad a genius as the famous agent she supplied. "We had one young minion in the department, I think his name was Wilberforce, who had simply the worst luck–it was never anything fatal, but it did once take us three days get the duck feathers out."

Melisande winced. She'd heard far too many of these stories for her own peace of mind since coming to live with her only in-law. It wasn't as if accidents were unheard of for the non-spark members of Deliah's family. _ Her _name might be known even in continental Europa thanks to pulp novels, but few knew that Delilah Quartermain had once had a younger sister, Anna. Anna had not been a Spark, and the man she married, one James Wooster, had not been one either. Neither had lived to see their only son recruited by his aunt's employer, and Melisande herself had seen only one or two daugerrotypes of her late parents-in-law. Ardsley looked a great deal like his father, but the blue eyes obviously ran in his mother's family. She knew they'd died, or been killed, in one of the rare airlock accidents that plagued the Glass City of London. Given Delilah's position, it was possible, likely even, it had been a deliberate attack rather than accidental, but nothing had ever been proven.

"With respect, Aunt Delilah, Miss Thorpe, this conversation is not exactly reassuring." She set her teacup and saucer down. "I do not doubt Ardsley's capabilities. I don't question Lord M_'s assignments. That doesn't mean I don't worry."

"Of course you worry." It would likely be a hot January in Petersburg before Trelawney Thorpe ever said anything that didn't sound authoritative. Melisande had the odd feeling she was being granted permission to worry. "That's why agents shouldn't marry. At least not each other; you know far too well what can happen if something goes wrong."

"There's no point in closing the barn door, Trelawney, at least not that particular one. The horses have long since escaped." Delilah sniffed behind her teacup.

"Yes, I've seen your great-nephew. No question who his father is, I'll say that."

Melisande smiled in spite of herself. "James does look like his father, doesn't he?" In fairness, the shock of dark hair could just as easily come from her side, but the blue eyes were unquestionably Ardsley's doing. She turned to the fireplace (which of course was not burning a real fire; that would require a ridiculous amount of filtering in a closed-air system like the Glass City) and the bassinet beside it. "I don't know whether I hope he goes into the family business or not." It wasn't strictly polite to get up with a guest, even one as familiar as Trelawney Thorpe, but she went to her son's crib anyway. New mothers were allowed these little lapses of etiquette.

"Perhaps he'll have the gift."

Melisande felt a strange lurch in her stomach. "Perhaps." The idea had been mildly amusing at first, when she had only barely realized she was pregnant. The farther along things had gotten, the less pleasant the thought of a child with the Spark became, until, when she was finally holding her son and marveling at the ordinary miracle of a baby, she realized the last thing she wanted was for him to be anything other than an ordinary boy. Certainly not a mad genius, just as likely to get eaten by his own creation as show them, show them all.

Or a spy, vanishing on a mission for months at a time, without her knowing if he was alive or dead . . . .

She shook herself firmly. "I knew who he was when I married him," she said, low enough that only she and James, who of course didn't understand a word, could hear. Carefully, she lifted her son out of his bassinet and returned to the table, cradling him on her lap. "At least if he does turn out to have the Spark he'll have no shortage of mentors." _Assuming you don't all blow yourselves up before his first birthday._

"Always good to have more of the Gifted. Not, of course, that those not blessed with it don't contribute in their own way. More tea, Trelawney?" Delilah offered the pot.

_If he is a Spark, the first thing he's going to learn is a little humility and to not treat non-Gifted like very clever pets._ "I'm sure whatever he decides to be, he'll be wonderful at it. Won't you, James? Just like your father, yes? And–well, modesty forbids."

"It's true, Delilah," Trelawney Thorpe said, adding a generous dollop of cream to her tea. "If your nephew had to go and fall for the oldest trap in the book, he did at least choose a very suitable partner. Useful, too, or so the fellows at Landsdowne House said after that business with the Duke of Devonshire."

"I was glad to be of assistance." Glad to get out of the house, glad to have something to think about besides Ardsley's absence, and at the time her own increasingly awkward condition. "Even if I had to take things rather quickly, but then James here decided he was done waiting."

"If anything, your pregnancy was the perfect cover." Another issue with Sparks, even the most backhanded compliment made one feel far too satisfied just to hear it. "No one would think of using an agent in such a delicate condition."

"Believe me, there were moments when I regretted saying yes." For all she loved her son now he was here, she had been oddly relieved when he'd decided to make his entrance nearly two weeks ahead of schedule. She'd thought, thanks to her training, she was able to withstand an uncommon degree of pain and discomfort, but that had not prepared her for the lack of balance, the sudden kicks and punches, random bouts of nausea and tears . . . it was a good thing that pregnancy was simply too long-term and inefficient to use as a means of information extraction. In labor alone, she'd have given up any secrets she was still hiding if it would have made the pain stop.

Melisande debated mentioning that to Delilah and Trelawney, but thought better of it. Saying something like that to Sparks would only encourage them to think of ways to speed the process along.

There was a discrete cough from the door. "Pardon me, Dame Quartermain, Miss Thorpe." Hudson, Delilah's butler (whom Melisande was 85.5% certain was only semi-retired from intelligence himself) was standing at the door. There was just the slightest pause before he added, "Mrs. Wooster. Lord M_ is here, with a . . . guest."

Melisande's stomach turned to ice. To their credit, Delilah and Trelawney were instantly sober as well. "Here, my dear, give me my great-nephew. I doubt he's here to see me."

Melisande passed her son to Delilah without comment. Trying to maintain a pleasant composure, she rose and smoothed her skirts. "Please, Hudson, show them in." She grasped the back of her chair, standing so anyone coming in the door would not see her knuckles were white.

Lord M_, tall and elegantly dressed as he always was, entered first and, to her mild surprise, alone. "Mrs. Wooster." He always addressed her formally, no matter how many times she insisted otherwise. "Delilah. Trelawney. And I see the young master is out and about." The smile that softened the stern aristocratic features was, as far as she could tell, genuine. From what little she'd gleaned about Lord M_'s daily life he was a father himself, possibly a grandfather, and there was certainly a paternal edge to his treatment of agents. As such, she suspected he'd view himself as James's benevolent adoptive uncle even if it hadn't seemed politic to ask him to be godfather. "And please, Mrs. Wooster, you can let go of your death grip on the furniture. I'm not bringing bad news."

In spite of herself, Melisande slumped with relief. "Thank you, Lord M_."

"So disappointing," he sighed, "Everyone always expects me to be the bearer of bad tidings. Instead, I was bringing a visitor for you. I hope you don't mind, Delilah, I expect your nephew's wife is going to want this guest to stay." As he spoke, he stepped aside, and a small, round woman with ash-blonde hair stepped into the doorway.

"Baba Anya!" Melisande dashed across the room and was in her godmother's embrace before she even could think. "How–why–" She was speaking Russian, forgetting how rude it really was with others in the room. "How did you get here? When?"

Her godmother held her out at arm's length. "Let me look at you, Melichka." Countess Anastasia Leonova Dragomirov looked much the same as she had nearly a year ago in Paris, down to the black brooch she always wore, which Melisande knew now was a memento from her godmother's distant past as a field agent. (And a gift from Lord M_, back when he was a callow young spy, first learning what the lady agents of the Duchy of Moscow did best.) "You look well. Very well. I was afraid between the English food and the English weather, or lack of it, I'd find you pale and sickly."

"I'm perfectly fine, as you can see. Motherhood agrees with me." She turned, but Delilah was already bringing James over. That, and the arched eyebrow from Trelawney Thorpe, reminded her of her manners. "Baba Anya, I don't believe you've met Ardsley's aunt, or her friend, though of course you know them by reputation, I'm sure." As she spoke, she switched back to English, and she opted not to speculate that Lord M_ had presumably briefed her before they arrived. "This is Dame Delilah Quartermain, and of course I'm sure your recognize Miss Trelawney Thorpe. Aunt Delilah, Miss Thorpe, allow me to present the Countess Dragomirov, my godmother."

"Countess, it's a pleasure." Delilah handed James back to Melisande, who was more than happy for the burden. "Melisande has told us about you."

"Nothing classified, I hope," Baba Anya said. "It is an honor to meet you, Dame Delilah. And the famous Miss Thorpe."

"My exploits have been slightly exaggerated." Trelawney Thorpe nodded politely, though. "Not too much, but a bit."

"I'm sure." But Baba Anya's attention, fairly enough, was on the bundle in Melisande's arms. "Now, let me see him. Ah, _dziecko_," and she crooned softly as Melisande, with only a faint reluctance, handed James over. After a moment of cooing in Russian that sounded embarrassingly like the sort of thing Melisande herself said to him all the time (she hadn't thought it was that soppy), Baba Anya looked up. "He looks like his father," and it wasn't quite accusatory.

"Yes, he does." Melisande felt she could be indulgent. "He's going to be terribly handsome when he grows up."

There was a soft snort from Delilah Quartermain. "Forgive me," she said, when Melisande gave her a dark look and Anya a puzzled one, "but 'terribly handsome' weren't words I was accustomed to hearing in regards to my nephew before Melisande came along."

"I certainly can't understand why not," Melisande muttered to her son.

"Forgive my goddaughter," Anya said. "I'm afraid she's never been entirely rational where your nephew is concerned. Though I suppose that's a good thing for you, isn't it, little one?" She smiled down at James, and Melisande had to smother a laugh. No one, it seemed, could resist a baby.

"I think I'm perfectly rational on the subject, but really, Baba Anya, you have no one to blame but yourself and Uncle Oleg. You're the ones who sent me after Ardsley."

"Have I mentioned, Anya, how pleased we've turned out to be with that?" Lord M_ could sound unprofessionally smug at times.

"Far too often." Cradling the baby, Baba Anya looked less annoyed than she might have at that.

"I appreciate being kept occupied. Speaking of which, Lord M_, not that I don't very much appreciate having a visitor-rather, being allowed this particular visitor, and I don't mean to be rude, but . . . why?" Melisande gestured to the tea table, and Lord M_ nodded briefly so she fixed him a cup. "Allowing me in was one thing–I'm married to an Englishman. My godmother is another story entirely." She heard a slight cough from Trelawney Thorpe, and hoped that for once the Spark of the Realm would keep her own counsel. "I cannot imagine Her Majesty was entirely comfortable allowing one of the Duchy's spymasters into her country, even with supervision."

Lord M_ took a sip of his tea and nodded approvingly, before looking at Melisande over the saucer. "To the point as always, Mrs. Wooster. There is an ulterior motive, of course. One might say, strange times make for strange bedfellows."

"I think my nephew's wife is more than familiar with that concept." Delilah took a decorous sip of tea and looked too innocent to really invite a response.

Lord M_ was far too polite to offer one. "Have you heard of Count Benevolo Vercordi?"

"Not that I recall. One of the Baron's?" Of course, within most of Europe, one was the Baron's man, or one was nothing.

"Not precisely. Oh, he doesn't go out of his way to annoy the Baron, but Count Vercordi is his own man and no one else's. He rules a very small principality on the Cote d'Azur, mostly a summer retreat for those with enough money and time for leisure. Which, of course, involves gambling away what money they have, for the most part."

"Business can't have been very good." Melisande poured a cup of tea for her godmother, strong and without sugar or cream, and set it on the table before refreshing her own cup. "Since when do Sparks go on holiday?"

"Some do, and of course the nobles need something to do now the Baron doesn't permit them to have wars as a hobby." Lord M_ smiled as he took another sip. "We'll have you making proper tea yet. In any case, the Count recently issued a series of invitations to representatives of various noble families, wealthy merchants, anyone who might have a significant cash reserve, really, to come to a special private event. He's being very deliberately coy about it, but everyone he's asked has a large amount of funding at their disposal, and little to no access to the sort of top-level Sparks the Baron has at his disposal."

"Interesting." Melisande looked at her godmother. "I am to assume the Duchy received such an invitation?"

Baba Anya nodded. "Via Paris, which is why I am the designated guest. Obviously, we have a Spark for a ruler in the Duchy, but with all due respect to the Grand Duke . . . ."

"Cousin Alexei has never been the strongest sort of Spark," Melisande concurred, though it still felt vaguely traitorous to say so. "Or the most practical. To this day I'm not quite sure why he thought the world needed a sawmill that runs on jam, but in any case, I do see the point. But I don't see how that leads to your being here, or what help I can be. I certainly haven't been invited."

"Nor has anyone from England." Lord M_ set down his cup again. "Presumably, the Queen's . . . unique condition suggested she would not be interested in whatever it is he's planning to offer, and of course we know that none of the nobility here would be likely to go without her permission."

"Not after what happened to Devonshire, they wouldn't." Melisande began to have an inkling where this was going. "But I suppose Her Majesty would like to have eyes on the inside, invitation or no? And it would have to be someone without any known connections. So you're looking for Melisande La Capere, not Mrs. Ardsley Wooster, yes?"

Baba Anya smiled. "I told you, Bernard, she's quick."

"I had no doubts." Lord M_ was abruptly serious. "That is precisely what we are proposing. Anya will attend, and it of course would be perfectly natural to bring her goddaughter as her companion. Traveling under your maiden name, with your father's surname, there should be nothing to connect you to Britain."

"Not if we go via Paris." Melisande realized she was already thinking of 'our' mission and in terms of 'we.' Apparently she'd missed active status more than she'd thought. "What is the object, though? Presumably this Count is selling something. Are we buying? And if so, for whom?"

"As in, who benefits?" Lord M_'s smile thinned a bit. "A fair question, certainly. Obviously, with Anya taking the lead—"

"As I must," her godmother interrupted, "as I am the one invited." There was a steely edge to her voice, not hostile, but certainly firm.

"Yes," Lord M_ continued, "the Duchy obviously has a solid claim to any valuable discoveries. Your presence, Mrs. Wooster, would give Her Majesty's government an interest as well. We have been . . . negotiating an equitable split."

"You're quite confident that I'll be acting in the interest of Her Majesty, and not my former employer." Melisande looked from Lord M_ to her aunt. "Does my uncle know about this idea?"

There was a long pause, broken only by a quiet baby burbling from James. Baba Anya busied herself adjusting his blanket, not looking at her goddaughter. "Oleg Feyodorovich has a . . . general idea of our intentions. He is still not kindly disposed towards you, though I understand your mother has been trying to persuade him otherwise. Though of course it would not be politic for him to say so Alexei Nicolaiovich is also inclined in your favor."

"He did send a very nice gift when James was born," Melisande said, half to herself. "Of course it was a month before Q branch was done taking it apart and putting it back together before we received it . . . ." To be fair, a mechanical dancing bear that played polkas did have far too many places to hide potential weapons, though she suspected what would annoy cousin Alexei more than the investigation was that it now played slightly out of tune.

"You almost sound as if you would like to go back." Trelawney Thorpe might not be as young as she once was, but she could still put enough authority into her voice even Lord M_ sat up a little straighter.

"I'd like to see my parents again someday." Melisande took her fussy son from Baba Anya, and something about the weight of him in her arms made her own spine a bit stronger, or it felt like it. "I would like for them to meet their grandson, and assuming he doesn't get himself killed, their son-in-law. That will be very difficult to achieve if my uncle has the Grand Duke convinced I'm a notorious traitor who ought to be shot on sight and my husband a dangerous enemy who should be treated likewise. If this mission is primarily for the Duchy then perhaps that point is negotiable."

To her surprise, the Spark of the Realm smiled. "Practical girl. If a bit sentimental," she added, as if she needed to make it clear she wasn't. "A better question would be is this sudden cooperative effort really an attempt to place you in precisely the right position to be shot on sight."

"I beg your pardon–"

Trelawney Thorpe cut off Baba Anya's protests. "It can't have done your reputation any good, Countess, to lose two agents and have a third defect. Your friendship with Lord M_ gets you in the door here, your goddaughter trusts you, and once you're both on the continent–"

"With respect to everyone here," Melisande interrupted, "the only person I trust completely is my husband. Baba Anya, you had a chance to eliminate me in Paris, you did not. Lord M_ assured my husband I would be safe here and my oath of allegiance to Her Majesty would be respected so long as I honored it. I have. And while I have been here I may have limited myself to certain internal security matters and to raising my son, I have not forgotten everything I learned. I would very much be interested in this mission. That doesn't mean I don't remember Secret Police policy about enemy agents working against the Duchy. I know what the official position on my status is likely to be. _Smyert shpionen._" Lord M_ and Trelawney Thorpe didn't change expression–they obviously knew what that meant. From the slight twist to Delilah's mouth, she didn't, so Melisande repeated in English, "Death to spies."

Baba Anya, of course, knew what it meant. "I hope you know, Melisande, I would never hurt you. But I admit that your uncle and I differ on that point."

"I am not surprised." She wasn't, by either statement.

"If we did not have assurances sufficient for our peace of mind that this is neither an attempt at a re-defection or a trap," Lord M_ said, "we would not even be presenting this offer. Not only are you a valuable asset yourself, Mrs. Wooster, but I have no desire to have to tell Ardsley something happened to you. At the least, it would likely render him highly ineffective in his duties. And those assurances go further than any . . . private confidences I might have in Countess Dragomirov, so you can desist with the smirk, Trelawney, though I know you won't." The Spark of the Realm raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

There was a pause, broken only by James's quiet fussing. For once Melisande half-wished he needed changing as that would give her time alone to think. With the perversity that seemed to be typical of babies, he declined to oblige. Finally, she said, "When do you leave for the Cote d'Azur, Baba Anya?"

Her godmother's face was as neutral as her own. "The day after tomorrow. I'm afraid this will have to be a short stay. The Count's little private party begins Friday, and the invitation was rather vague on how long it will last."

"Hm." Melisande looked down at her son. Had he grown since yesterday? It seemed as if he grew almost fast enough to see. Suddenly the weight of her glass locket, with its cunningly concealed picture of her husband, felt very heavy against her neck. What would Ardsley want her to do? To be safe, of course. On the other hand, he would not want her to be bored, either, and he knew that she hadn't been raised to sit quietly at home with her needlework. In fact, hadn't it been her ability in a pitched battle that had prompted him to propose? He could hardly object to her dusting off those skills now that she was fit again.

Besides, it wasn't as if he was here to have a vote. "Well then. I suppose I don't have very long to pack, do I?" Lord M_ smiled, Baba Anya looked cautiously pleased, Trelawney Thorpe was inscrutable, and there was something that might have been fear in Delilah Quartermain's eyes.

The knife dropped by the hilt into Melisande's palm. With a quick flick of her wrist, she flipped it from a combat grip to a stabbing grip, then returned it to the scabbard and unstrapped the rig from her arm. She hadn't dropped the knife or cut off her fingers, always a good sign that she wasn't too rusty. The knife went into her small traveling case, along with the little pistol and the grappling gun. Sentimental reminders of Paris, perhaps, and a harsher reminder to keep one's eye on one's target, and that even family were not always trustworthy.

She was, of course, still packing to go, so perhaps the reminders were necessary.

There was a soft tap at the bedroom door. She'd thought that Aunt Delilah and Baba Anya were asleep. James was in the crib by her bed (officially, it was _their_ bed, hers and Ardsley's, but he had been home to share it precisely once during their marriage, and that for far too short a time.) James was becoming less fussy about sleeping through the night, but even if he'd still been waking what seemed like every five minutes, she'd have kept him with her instead of the nursery. This mission sounded simple, but one never knew. She'd been told seducing a British agent would be easy, and in fairness, it had been. They just hadn't mentioned the very real possibility of her being seduced in return.

"Come in." She kept her voice low, and for now it paid off–no sounds from the bassinet.

Aunt Deliliah opened the door just as carefully. She'd lived through the same long nights as Melisande. "I'm not disturbing you?"

"Not at all. I'm still packing." She supposed she ought to think more about the clothes instead of weapons, but her choices were limited to what she'd brought with her when she defected (which wasn't a great deal, though her split skirts and the jacket cut to conceal her variety of weapons could come in handy) and the English fashions she'd acquired since. Some of those were passable on the Continent, others, more strongly influenced by the Glass City's constant perfect climate and subsequent lack of need for layering, were . . . not. Not unless the Count's resort was very liberal-minded.

"I thought you might be. From what I saw with Trelawney and our other agents, it's normal to be restless right before a mission begins." Delilah studied the travel case and the small trunk propped open beside it. "You'll be all right for gear, then?"

"I have a few things. I'm afraid I'm a bit more lost for appropriate attire, but Baba Anya assured me that's taken care of." Despite having shared her home for over a year now, Melisande was never entirely sure where she stood in her aunt-in-law's estimation. It was hard to tell now whether Delilah's expression was one of concern, disapproval, or a mixture of both. "Hopefully I won't be gone so long it will be a problem."

"Hopefully." The older woman was not frowning, precisely, but close to it. "I'd thought you might be short on supplies. I had these lying around, and thought it might be useful. Just an old idea I had. It was never really up Trelawney's alley, but you might find it more suitable." She held out a small gold compact with an engraved filigree designed, that looked like any other little makeup mirror, and a pair of what appeared to be perfectly ordinary black satin opera gloves with a stitched-on pattern of gold cord and seed pearls around the wrists.

Melisande had worked with espionage quartermasters long enough to know to take both items very, very gingerly. "The compact?"

Delilah was definitely smiling. "One of my nicer thoughts for lady agents. It's safe to open, my dear. Just make sure you always work the clasp to your right. Now, the mirror is removable. It's actually a polarizing lens—look through and you'll be able to see most signs of invisible ink, and if anyone's been dusting any powders or using any sort of liquids on surfaces. Quite handy for detecting knockout or poisoning attempts and traps."

"And the face powder?" It was a pretty pink shade, but Melisande held the puff between thumb and forefinger, well away from her face.

"Compliments your color nicely, my dear." Delilah's smile had just a bit of an edge. "But it is also highly incendiary. Work the latch to your left, and you'll have approximately fifteen seconds before the spark sets the powder off. I suggest you be at least ten feet away by that point."

Melisande gently closed the compact and tucked it in the travel case. "Approximately?"

Delilah shrugged. "These things do vary with humidity and temperature."

She hoped it was "approximately" in the direction of taking longer to ignite. "And the gloves?"

"Try them on." Melisande pushed the sleeves of her dressing gown up and slid on the right-hand glove. At first, all she noted was the silky satin lining, and then it registered that the decorative notions around the wrists felt a tad heavier than gold thread and seed pearls ought to. Delilah obviously saw the look on her face. "The little gray pearl just over your pulse point is the switch. There's twenty feet of high-tensile wire coiled in there. It should be strong enough to support your weight and one other person, provided they're not too heavy. It also should hold most normal humans tied at the wrists, though I make no guarantees about clanks and constructs." She pointed to the left glove, which was lying on the bed. "The pearls on that one dissolve into knockout drops. Two should put an average adult man under for at least an hour."

Melisande nodded. "And the pearls on the right?"

"From the finest oysters in the tidal beds. Do not get the gloves mixed up."

"I won't." Melisande slid the right glove back off and folded them both into the travel case. "Thank you, Aunt Delilah. They're fantastic, much better than I'm used to being issued."

Delilah paused, her gaze wandering to the bassinet. "They might come in handy. I don't like seeing agents go into the field under-armed. And of course Ardsley would never forgive any of us if something happened to you."

Melisande felt a tightening in her throat. "Aunt Delilah—"

Delilah waved her away. "It's the least I can do, besides take care of young James here until you return. Only . . . ." She paused for a long moment. "I already raised my nephew as an orphan. Please don't force me to do the same for his son." She turned back to Melisande and her gaze was steely. "Be sure you come back."

"Believe me," Melisande said, checking that the gun was near the top of the contents before snapping the lid of her travel case shut, "I intend to."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimers in Chapter One

Ardsley Wooster stared at the bank of gauges, lights, switches and dials and tried very hard not to panic.

He'd been left in charge of yet another one of Gil's projects while his 'master' was called away to talk to the Baron. From the look on Gil's face when Dolokhov, the Baron's amanuensis, had called him away, it wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation. Then again, in the long months since he'd arrived and since Gil had been introduced to all of Europa as Baron Wulfenbach's son and heir presumptive, any conversation Gil had with anyone generally was, at best, civil. At worst, it was an exercise in one-sidedness, with a wrong reply an invitation to hours spent scrubbing the most disgusting things out of the vats in the large mechanical labs. A suggestion that perhaps a visit to his old friends in the student dormitories might cheer him up had lead to Ardsley spending several days cataloging every bolt, nut, and washer in the flight lab, without Zoing's help. He hadn't made that mistake again.

This particular experiment was yet another piece of Gil's latest pet project, a small flying machine that operated by a crankshaft-driven propellor and had wings like a bird, rather than a lighter-than-air ship with air cells. Gil was stress-testing the engine, a delicate operation, and he hadn't been thrilled to be interrupted. That meant if Ardsley pulled the wrong switch or turned the wrong dial, Gil was likely to be in an even more foul mood when he returned than he would be anyway.

The whine of the turbines changed pitch, and the little blue Cyclopean construct who was also supposed to be monitoring gave a squeal that almost matched the engines. "I know, I know!" He never quite understood what Zoing was saying exactly, but by now he'd learned to get the gist. "It looks as if the flywheel's wobbling, but maybe it's supposed to do that?" Like any non-intuitive engineer he understood how baseline steam engines operated and what the parts were supposed to look like, but once a Spark started making 'improvements', all bets were officially off. "And I haven't got the faintest idea what that balance arm is doing there . . . ."

The rattling got louder, and Zoing made a sound somewhere between "Whee!" and "Eek!" Ardsley's right hand hovered over the emergency cutoff switch, and his left over the vents to the combustion chamber. Gil was burning high-quality coal to generation the steam, which meant higher heat with less particulate byproducts, but it also meant it didn't take long to reach a very high temperature and it took a very long time for the components to cool off. He could slow the process by cutting off most of the air, but that would be gambling there was enough time for the engine to cool down naturally. If he was wrong, the best-case scenario involved picking expensive shrapnel out of the test chamber.

Worst-case, at the Castle's current altitude he'd probably have a little under a minute to see if he could learn how to fly before having a close encounter with whatever Swiss canton they were over at the moment.

The rattling was loud enough to nearly drown out another squeal from Zoing. Much as he was normally grateful for his own lack of the Spark, Ardsley found himself wishing desperately for at least a momentary intuition. "I hear it! I just don't know what to do!" The pressure gauge was creeping inexorably towards the redline–

A hand reached past and threw the emergency shutdown valve. There was a loud hiss and a massive cloud of steam as the water reservoir above the test chamber flooded the engine, obscuring the viewports. Ardsley spun around, and found himself staring into the expressionless face of his employer and one-time friend, Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. "Lucky for you I showed up when I did," Gil said, his tone betraying no indication whether Wooster was about to be on unpleasant cleaning duty again. "That thing nearly blew."

"Yes, well, I wasn't quite sure, sir, I didn't want to ruin the engine but–"

"But you weren't sure whether stopping the test would be worse, or whether I'd be angry no matter what you did.." To his surprise, Gil didn't, in fact, sound angry. Just resigned, and very, very tired. "Don't worry, Wooster. It doesn't matter now anyway."

"Sir?" It had taken a surprisingly short amount of time to get used to calling Gil "sir" but considering the rapid personality change his employer had undergone aboard Castle Wulfenbach, it probably shouldn't have been so startling. In Paris, Gil had been a dilettante, to put it kindly, though somehow he had managed to always do more than get by in his courses. And to put it mildly, he had been the life of any party he decided to attend, a good friend to those who braved his rakehell ways (including a not-as-deep-pocketed English non-intuitive engineer, to the point Ardsley had almost felt guilty at times about pulling the wool over his friend's eyes), generally the antithesis of the sarcastic and sometimes-withdrawn Spark he was aboard Castle Wulfenbach.

"It doesn't matter," Gil repeated, "because my father has yet another little test he wants to put me to. This one involves leaving the Castle, so I won't be working on the flyer or any other project for a while. You'll need to pack me something suitably formal, as I'm going to have to impress a bunch of idle-rich nobles, and knowing my father the daughters of any he especially wants to keep happy. At least he hasn't mentioned marry me off in the last few weeks. That's the last thing I need."

Ardsley felt a minor lurch in his stomach at the mention of marriage, but over the long months he'd perfected not thinking about it. "Where exactly is he sending you, sir?"

Gil slumped onto one of his work stools and picked up a mug of tea that Zoing had deposited at his elbow. "Some Count Vercordi, on the Cote d'Azur, apparently issued a whole lot of invitations to people who shouldn't be gathering in large groups and he seemed very intent that my father not hear about. Foolish, really, my father hears about everything. In any case, given no one involved is particularly Sparky, Father feels this isn't something he needs to address in the traditional way." Usually, that meant a Jaeger occupation of the town if it was a good day. "So he thought it might be nice for me to get out, meet some of Europa's nobility, and generally serve as a reminder that no matter how sneaky they think they are, my father is sneakier."

"Not in so many words, one assumes, sir."

"Of course not." Gil sighed. "So anyway, pack my bags–yours, too, of course. The son of Baron Wulfenbach can hardly travel without a valet."

"Of course, sir." Getting away from the Castle would be a nice change, assuming as always they weren't walking into some sort of anti-Wulfenbach trap. "I assume there will be some sort of security accompanying us?"

"What, let the designated heir go wandering off entirely on his own?" Gil snorted. "Please. No Jaegers, of course, this is still a high-class resort and we wouldn't want to frighten the quality. But I'll have a protection squad of regular troops with instructions to stay close, but not too close, and Boris will be baby-sitting."

"Dolokhov?" Ardsley grimaced before he could stop himself. "Is that really necessary, sir?"

"According to my father. And don't look like that, he's not so bad. It's not his fault he's a construct, after a fashion."

"With respect, sir, it's not the extra set of arms that I find . . . disconcerting." Dolokhov simply looked too hard and was far more clever than he let on. The Baron's amanuensis was also adept in a fight, highly observant, and pathologically loyal to the Baron. From what Ardsley had been told, he was not working for anyone else, though it was possible he was very deep-cover. It seemed more likely he was simply the Baron's eyes and ears–a little too sharply at times.

"Well, you'll just have to live with it. You're not the one he's baby-sitting, after all." Gil looked longingly at the test chamber. "I suppose it won't be so bad. It might be nice to have someone new to talk to."

Ardsley tried not to take it personally. He knew, on a rational level, professional distance was best for many reasons. Still, after Paris-Gil, Castle-Gil was an entirely different experience and a little sad. "Was there anything in particular you wanted me to pack, sir?"

"Whatever seems appropriate for a long, boring weekend with a bunch of well-born idiots." Unfortunately that really left far too much room for error, but at least Gil didn't seem in the mood to care too much. "Though, if you could, there are a few books on avian anatomy I have on my desk in the library–put those in, too? At least I might get something productive done."

"Certainly, sir." Ardsley waited a moment, but there apparently weren't any further instructions coming, so he made a quiet half-bow and backed to the door. Gil was still sitting at the workbench, nursing his tea, with Zoing watching from beneath that oversize hat. The little construct made a soft sighing sound and patted his master's knee with a blue claw. Ardsley stepped out the door and closed it as quietly as was possible with a heavy metal blast door.

Later that night, after deciding which of Gil's limited selection of shirts and greatcoats (whatever else he'd been doing in Paris, he hadn't been shopping for clothes) were suitable to pack, and which of his own even-more-limited wardrobe would be appropriate for ghosting along in Gil's shadow, Ardsley finally could retire for the night. Not that he was going to sleep any time soon. He had to write a report for a dead-drop communication before they left, and establish some way of passing information from their destination, or a way of hiding reports until they got back and he could send them.

Hanging his greatcoat casually on the back of the door (coincidentally blocking what he suspected was a peephole in the process), he sat down on his narrow but reasonably comfortable bunk and yanked off his boots. Reports could wait until after he'd had a quick nap, at least. He was tired, and it was getting harder some days to remember that his first job was not, in fact, gentleman's gentleman to Gilgamesh Wulfenbach.

Harder, but some reminders were stronger than others. Settling back on his pillow, he took out the old pocketwatch he carried in his waistcoat, ostensibly for sentiment rather than function (as he had a clock in his greatcoat that he kept synced to official Wulfenbach time.) Sliding his thumbnail under the back, he popped it open. Normally that would have revealed the inner workings, but the cogs and wheels in the body were an encryption device. Now, though, he was looking at the little portrait he kept on the back like in a locket. It had been made in Paris during their heady, foreshortened honeymoon. Melisande's hair was half-up, swept back from her face with a long cascade down the back. Her dark eyes were sparkling and her lips curved in an adoring smile, with just a hint of sadness. At some point, he thought, tracing a finger lightly along the edge of the portrait, he ought to get a picture of their son as well. Perhaps the next time he was home. When there was a next time. If there was a next time.

Ardsley sighed, closing his fingers around the watch, and closing his eyes. An hour or two of sleep, if he was lucky a dream of his wife and home, and then it was, apparently, off to the Cote d'Azur. Funny. For most people, that would probably be something to be excited about. So why the lingering sense of impending doom?

Of course, he thought, as he drifted off, there were Sparks involved . . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Melisande had long since stopped pretending to pick at her needlepoint and instead closed her eyes, resting her cheek against the plush seat cushion of the airship. She'd surprised herself with her English agoraphobia, nearly suffering a dizzy spell when first stepped out into surface air. Even with the recommended break in the adaptation chamber to adjust from the pressurized environment of the Glass City, she'd found herself light-headed breathing surface air. The dizzying blue vault of sky above seemed terrifyingly vast. And that was only a year. For someone born in the sunken city, who'd potentially gone years, decades even, without seeing the sky as anything but an illustration in a book, the transition must have been mind-boggling.

The changing angle of the light from the viewport told her the ship was shifting course again and she opened her eyes. "Is it much farther?"

"Another hour or so." Baba Anya was knitting what looked suspiciously like a baby blanket. "I thought you were sleeping."

"A bit." Outside, the sun was still shining, but the airship was high enough she could only see clouds. "It's been a long time since I've traveled anywhere. It's strange, but I almost forgot what sunlight feels like. When James is older we'll have to go to the northern islands. He needs to learn what normal sky looks like."

Baba Anya lowered her knitting. "That can be made substantially easier, you know."

Melisande turned to look out the porthole again. "I knew this was coming."

"I'm obligated to ask." Baba Anya sounded as if she already knew the answer. "You can come back. Your uncle can be persuaded, as Alexei Nicolaiovich is inclined in your favor. And you are still family."

Melisande gave a sighing, soft laugh. "Provided that's true, you notice my son remains safely within her Majesty's territory. I wouldn't leave him behind."

"His extraction could be arranged–"

"No, it couldn't." Melisande smiled a bit sadly. "I've lived there. An operation like that would not be possible and given Ardsley's situation means they want his wife and son where they can keep an eye on them, even your persuasive influence with Lord M_ won't work."

"If it is a question of your husband, his situation might also be rectified."

Melisande felt an odd professional pride. "You don't know exactly where he is, do you?"

"And you're not going to tell me."

"No." She knew her smile was a trifle smug, but couldn't help it. "Suffice to say it's in all of our interests his mission proceed. Even if I thought we could get James away, I wouldn't put Ardsley at risk to do it."

"I suppose I should expect nothing less," Baba Anya sighed. "Are you happy, at least, Melichka?"

She'd asked herself the same thing often enough. "Perfectly happy? No. Content enough? Yes."

"Happier when your husband was home?" Odd, how her godmother preferred to simply call Ardsley "your husband." Not unlike Lord M_'s chronic need to address her only as Adsley's wife.

"Of course. Then it's about as close to perfect as I could hope." She didn't like to think of that too much. "Not that it makes any of their strange customs any more comprehensible, but when he's there they're bearable." Or their language. She realized with a start she'd been speaking Russian since they'd left England for Paris and a quick shopping stop before the airship to the coast. "You know they have Christmas a week early?"

"And goose instead of fish," Baba Anya agreed. "Have you at least managed to teach them how to make proper tea?"

"I'd have better luck teaching the fish to sing." Without a samovar, there was no way to make the heated water and dark, intense concentrate that made a proper Russian tea. "I did make the mistake of pointing out the lack of a samovar to Delilah. One should never say things like that to a Spark, I know, but so far, there haven't been any explosions of tea. Perhaps she hasn't gotten to it yet."

"One can hope." Baba Anya seemed to relax now that business was out of the way. Or at least, unofficial business. "You're prepared for when we arrive?"

"I've looked at the maps of the island and the . . .compound? Hotel? I can't even decide what to call it." She'd memorized as much as possible and read the dossiers in Paris. "It all seems rather typical for nobility–ornate, overstated, far too much of everything. And a casino designed to make sure people lose as much money as possible, but then why else would you build one? I don't see anything that warrants the sort of secrecy Count Vercordi wants."

"He's never shown any inclination towards the kind of games the Families like to play," Baba Anya said. "Hence both our office and Lord M_'s being so intrigued with these invitations. Our job is to find out what he's selling that's so interesting."

"And buy, if it's that good?" Melisande knew her expression could best be described as sly, but they were in a private cabin.

"Between the two agencies, we ought to be a high bidder." Baba Anya's expression was a mirror of her own. "Unless someone has an excellent day at the casino. You're prepared for your role?"

"Dutiful goddaughter accompanying her godmother," Melisande said primly. "I'm quite prepared."

"I hope so." Baba Anya frowned. "I wish you'd take off that locket. It's quite distinctive."

"The only people who would recognize it are Ardsley, myself, and Gil Holzfäller," Melisande said, her fingers closing around the glass locket. It now contained, along with Ardsley's picture, her silver wedding band, which she obviously couldn't wear as part of her cover. "And as it looks transparent, even if did take it of, which I never do, it isn't as if anyone will think about looking in it."

Baba Anya looked less than convinced, but dropped the line of conversation. "We'll be expected to attend a reception this evening. Apparently it's a must for all his invited guests."

"Will there be anyone at the casino who isn't on the guest list?"

"Not that we've determined. It appears this is an intimate private affair for a dozen or so of the count's friends."

"And by friends," Melisande said, turning to enjoy the clear view of the sky again, "he means the ones with the deepest pockets."

The airship docked on a pier reaching out into the bluest seas Melisande had seen in what felt like forever. From beneath through the glass, the waters around England were dark shades of wavering greens. The air on the Cote d'Azur was warm, though the breeze off the water made her shiver a bit as she and Baba Anya were escorted to a horse-drawn omnibus while their luggage was brought along on a dray cart. "Surprisingly low-tech," she observed.

The liveried driver, decked in what she assumed were the count's colors of green and gold, heard the remark. "Count Vercordi prefers as much as possible be attended to by . . . non-Sparkish means. After the late unpleasantness he thought his visitors would prefer a destination without the reminders of the . . . Other and its war machines."

"A very reasonable assumption," Baba Anya said. She knew, as well as Melisande did, the casino also barred guests from bringing clanks as servants and severely restricted any constructs, especially those that might have received enhancements related to throwing dice or counting cards. "I suppose people coming to such a place would most like to get away."

"This seems like the perfect place, Baba Anya." Melisande was only partly acting. The island was rocky, but covered in parasol pines and eucalyptus trees that gave it a peaceful aspect. Though, she also noted, it made memorizing landmarks along the lazily-traversing path difficult. "Are there no villagers on the island?"

"A small settlement, on the opposite end from Count Vercordi's compound," their driver said. "A few fishing families, and a small harbor for trade with the monks on the Ile de Saint-Honorat."

"There's a monastery?" Melisande had noticed that on the maps, but the dossier had seemed fairly indifferent, which struck her as odd. Best to hear what the official line was.

"They're a cloistered order of some sort, Miss," the driver said. "Nothing to be concerned about, they're not militants or Sparkish or any such. But they do trade with us for supplies. I doubt you'll see any, they never come over to this side of the island and rarely leave their monastery at all."

Melisande nodded, though she hadn't been especially concerned. It was possible, of course, they were one of the more excitable orders who had very strong (strongly negative) feelings about the Gifted, but considering the oddly-specific nature of Count Vercordi's invitations that didn't sound like it would be a problem even if it were the case. "Perhaps I'll have to look around the village during our visit."

"Oh, there's nothing there of much interest, Miss," which was naturally the wrong thing to say to a spy. "I'm sure once you see your accommodations you won't be at all worried about ways to spend your time."

"And when will we see it?" Baba Anya asked. Melisande was sure her aunt had been doing the same thing she was-noting the scenery, trying to remember switchback turns, and keeping a general idea of the way they'd come. She wondered if there were multiple paths and people could be brought across the island by different routes.

"Right about now." They came out of the trees, and Melisande couldn't help a gasp.

The Count's . . . resort? Compound? Fortress? Loomed over them. She thought the latter might be the best descriptor, as it had clearly been a fort at some point in its existence. The stone face rose up over the end of the path, and she could see the opposite side looked out over the sea. The windows, though, instead of being narrow and barred, had in many cases been widened and all were ablaze with lights. The stone had clearly been scrubbed, and as they passed through the gates into the courtyard she noted the chains holding the portcullis up were no longer attached and in fact cemented in place so the massive gates remained up. The courtyard had also been turned into a garden worthy of Versailles, but suited to the rocky Mediterranean climate. There were flowers, but smaller blossoms than roses in temperate gardens, and there were more of the pines and eucalyptus that were miniaturized versions of the trees they'd driven through, only these were decked out with fairy lights. Melisande didn't have to feign the astonishment or charm. "It's lovely!"

"And guests are, of course, welcome to visit the gardens as often as they like," the driver said. "There are some lovely little benches and fountains, though I think the grotto is the nicest part."

Melisande made a mental note to casually wander through the gardens and map those paths later. For now, though, her attention turned to the stone steps and massive doors to which the carriage had just drawn up. Two more liveried servants were waiting to swing them wide, and as she let their driver hand her down, she realized that not only was she anxious for the mission to really begin, she hadn't thought of Ardsley or James since they'd landed on the island. The guilt was almost enough to drown out some of the excitement.

Almost.

The black velvet dress laced up the back, and that and her corset were uncomfortably snug. Melisande wondered guiltily if she hadn't quite lost all the baby weight she'd thought she had. The opera gloves with their heavy bracelets of Q branch's finest work matched nicely, at least, as did the glass locket and its black-velvet ribbon. Baba Anya had given her ivory-and-gold hair combs and the dress itself revealed just enough of her decolletage to avoid being matronly, so the impression was not quite so funereal, but she still felt something like a short , black pudding. "You're sure this is all right?" she murmured.

"You look lovely, my dear, and just understated enough." Baba Anya was in dark blue, with a neckline suitable to her age and a color that perfectly complimented her blonde hair and green eyes. As was appropriate to their cover of a Countess and her goddaughter her jewelry was finer than Melisande's: a sapphire pendant with pearls, with her coronet of gems in her hair. Whether any of it could be converted into a weapon, Melisande didn't know, but it wouldn't have surprised her in the least. "Now, remember, reserved and polite, and if it seems flirting will help, do try to remember you're my _unmarried_ niece."

"I'll try." What worried her was how easy it would be.

They descended the right side of the sweeping double staircase leading down to the casino floor. The place was a converted fortress, and as the upper levels were too narrow and low-ceilinged for a large gathering space, the gaming floor was in what she thought, from the vaulted ceilings, was an old cellar. Certainly not a dungeon. No. Definitely not a dungeon. At least she was going to keep telling herself that, and blazing chandeliers with more fairy lights helped maintain the illusion.

And of course instead of racks, iron maiden, electric grids and whatever other torture devices Sparks favored, there were far more creative instruments of self-destruction. The riffling of cards, muted thud of dice on velvet, clattering mah jong tiles, voices calling as the coins for two-up spun in the gaslight . . . any way you turned there was a chance to gamble away a Storm King's ransom. The croupiers, dealers, and what she was fairly sure were guards all wore the same green and gold livery as all the servants seemed to. "See anyone you recognize?" she murmured low to Baba Anya.

"Sir William Franklin," she murmured back, pointing discretely to a whippet-like man dressed incongruously in a well-cut suit made of patchwork broadcloth and a ratty fur hat who was occupying a place at the two-up table. "Claims to be American–can you imagine? A con artist, but a very wealthy one. The lady across from him? Baroness de la Mothe. The title's her first husband's–she's on her third."

Melisande studied the baroness, noting the too-too fashionable gems and gown and the hair that was just slightly too auburn. "At the baccarat table?"

"Two dukes, or rather dukes' bastard sons," Baba Anya said, pointing with a discrete flick of her ivory fan. "Fathers both made the mistake of crossing the Baron." There might be many barons and baronesses, but only one who needed no name attached. "The dark man is Adrastos Malamakis. Self-made wealth," and she heard the faint tinge of aristocratic disapproval, "olives and oils and that foul fish sauce that's so popular. The Asian woman in the pretty brocade is calling herself Lady Oyone, though as that means-

"Lady Wealth," Melisande said, "yes, the sort of alias one might use for a casino."

Baba Anya's smile was tinged with professional pride. "Across from her, dark hair, blue eyes–we don't know who he is, but they say he's Roman and very old money. Keeps to himself, except for that little brunette standing behind him trying to distract his opponents with her decolletage, but they don't seem to be operating for anyone. Beside him, the distinguished-looking man with the tailored African robes and the pince-nez–that's Gosego seboko Bataung. Educated in Paris, and pays for most things in gold. Alleges he's a prince of some sort, but . . . . " She shrugged delicately. "There are a few more on the lists we acquired, whom I'm sure we'll see later. Most people here, from what we know, are little more than they appear–wealthy, from one source or another, and some still with hopes for power."

Melisande nodded. "Like most of us, really. Except I note there is no one from the Ice Kingdoms . . . ."

"What would they gamble with? Or pay Count Vercordi? Coal and whale oil?"

Given the fact stories of Albia's mind-control powers had proven to be exaggerated Melisande wondered if stories of the wild Northerners using fire as currency were just as extreme, but opted not to debate it. "And, of course, within the Baron's territories, who's left who'd dare?"

"Quite true." Baba Anya smiled and fanned herself just a trace too ostentatiously. "I don't see our host anywhere yet. Shall we try our luck until he puts in an appearance?"

"It would look odd if we didn't." Melisande understood the rules of games of chance, including several methods for cheating when the games were played in an informal setting. Trying any of those here seemed like an unwise plan. "Baccarat?"

"We'll see." Baba Anya made her way towards the cashier's cage, leaving Melisande to casually drift, doing her best wide-eyed innocent expression. She wandered towards the baccarat table, careful to keep her arms decorously low and her gaze polite, but she also kept gazing. The two dilettante sons didn't bother to hide their appraising gazes, one almost missing the shoe of cards being passed to him. She gave a vague smile and looked away. The African prince, if that was what he was (he certainly had a regal bearing), looked straight at her, and gave her a gracious nod before turning his attention back to his cards. The Roman, if that was what he was with those blue eyes, studied her briefly and she saw what might have been a flicker of interest, but the cool gaze from the dark-haired woman behind him told her to leave that avenue alone, even if she was a respectably-married spy and had nothing in mind other than information.

Now, the Greek shipping magnate did not appear to be encumbered by any hangers-on. In fact, from the look in his eyes, he was more than happy for her to join the table. Or elsewhere, for that matter. "You will join us, Mademoiselle?" He smiled, showing an impressive set of white teeth in the dark face. "You play baccarat?"

"I'm afraid not well," and she was surprised how well the demure tones and lowered eyes came back, though the timing of each just seemed off. It had been so easy, that first time in the Paris café with Ardsley. All her training had come naturally then. Of course, there was probably a reason for that . . . . "May I just observe? My godmother is the real expert, I'm simply attending her while she's here."

"Please, stand by me." Malmakis rose politely as she approached the table, and the other gentlemen followed suit. "Perhaps you'll bring me luck."

Melisande smiled, and moved to stand behind his chair. The Roman glanced her way again, this time appraising, and she saw the same look in Gosego's eyes–they were wondering if she was a shill or a distraction for the Greek millionaire. Let them wonder. She watched as Malmakis took a card from the wooden box called the 'shoe' or _sabot_, and glanced at it before placing it face-down beside the other beside it. He turned the sabot to face Gosego, who drew two cards, looked and them, and then nodded, indicating he would not take a third. Melisande realized they were playing the French version, chemin-de-fer, meaning that as dealer for this round Malmakis was backing any losses by the others with his own money. No wonder he'd take any luck he could get.

The Count's liveried croupier, there as a supervisor in this sort of game, flipped both sets of cards over. "A natural nine. Monsieur wins."

"You see? Luck." Malmakis smiled at her as he collected the gambling chips. Melisande smiled graciously–it was as plausible as any other explanation. Baccarat was almost as entirely up to chance as a roulette wheel. The house won by taking a percentage of the winnings, and the players won by betting amongst themselves, as evinced by the stack of chips the younger bastard son was pushing across to the Roman. "Now, Mademoiselle Fortune, shall I stay as banco, or pass?"

"I always find it best to quit while one is ahead."

"Well then, I shall take your advice." He passed the sabot down to the Roman. "You are here with your godmother, you say?"

"The Countess Dragomirov," which was of course no secret, but she watched the others at the table. The croupier did not appear to notice anything but the cards, the Roman and the two young men kept their attention on the sabot , but the Roman's woman glanced briefly in Melisande's direction, and she caught Gosego looking away in the quick manner of someone caught looking. "She thought accompanying her would be educational for me."

"You're Russian." The Roman's accent was only vaguely Italian when speaking the French that appeared to be the order of the casino..

"On my mother's side." No need to give excess detail.

"A cold place, the Duchy of Moscow." Gosego had a warm, cultured accent, mostly Parisian French but with a lilting undertone. "But capable of producing great beauty."

Melisande smiled demurely. "You have visited the Duchy, sir?"

"Once, several years ago, I was fortunate enough to see St. Petersburg in the spring." Casually, he tossed two red gambling chips onto the table and tapped for a card, as if he couldn't be bothered to interrupt his conversation to think about how much he was going to bet. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle, I am discourteous. I am Prince Gosego seboko Bataung."

"And I," said the Greek, obviously slightly irked at being upstaged in the manners department, "am Adrastos Malmakis, and am charmed to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle . . . ."

"La Capere," she supplied. "Melisande La Capere."

The Roman, finally, glanced up at her, and said, "Do you speak Latin, by chance, Mademoiselle?"

It was starting to get very strange to hear herself called "miss", after being a "missus" for so long in England. "A bit. I did attend the University in Paris for languages."

"Then you realize how your name might make the prudent man a bit wary." He looked back at the sabot and slipped out a card.

"Pardon?" Malmakis looked slightly puzzled.

To her surprise, it was the woman behind the Roman who spoke, and though her accent had a studied neutrality, Melisande thought she caught a faint trace . . . home. Not England-home, but Moscow-home. "He means," the woman said quietly, "that in Latin, _capere_ means to ensnare. I hope you aren't out to entrap anyone."

"No one so far." She tried to look suitably vapid and amused, but she had the uneasy feeling the Roman, his woman, and Gosego at least had some idea there was more to it than that.

To her surprise, though, it was the Lady Oyone, who until now had been a silent ivory statue at the far end of the table, who spoke. "I am sure we all have our secrets, Mademoiselle Entrapment included." Like the others, her accent was faint, her diction perfect. But Melisande noted that, pale makeup, elegant brocade, and jade-tipped hair sticks aside, Lady Wealth did not keep her nails in the elongate style fashionable among the wealthiest Asian women, but filed functionally short. And who knew what was on the other end of those hair sticks, or how sharp they were?

"I, for one, have no secrets." Despite the Greek's jovial tone, Melisande somehow doubted that. "I simply wish to play cards, and see what our host has planned for us."

As if in response to Malmakis's wish, an unseen gong loud enough to be heard over the chattering noise of the casino rang, bringing everyone to attention. Melisande turned towards what she thought was the source of the noise, the opposite end of the room from which they'd entered. She didn't see a gong or anyone ringing it, but at the top of a much less-dramatic flight of stairs than the front, one she would bet was designed precisely to be inconspicuous, was a man. He was dressed almost simply, compared to the liveried servants and the ostentatious guests, but the simple jacket and trousers were deceptive–it had taken fine tailoring and expensive cloth (the jacket in the same soft green as the livery) to make clothing that looked so simple. The man's bearing was not quite regal, but there was no question he felt in total command of the room, and was happy to be so. As far as looks, Melisande estimated he was perhaps fifty, perhaps older and well-preserved. Given he was completely bald, it was difficult to estimate. The smile, though showing no teeth, seemed beatific.

A movement beside her drew her attention, and she realized Baba Anya had rejoined her. "So this is our host," she murmured. Melisande nodded.

Count Benevolo Vercordi surveyed the room, giving the impression he was looking to see if everyone was happy. More likely, the professional part of Melisande's mind thought, he was making sure he had everyone's attention. Once assured he did, the smile broadened, and he spoke:

"Welcome, guests." His voice was deeper than she'd expected, and supremely cultured. "I am pleased to see so many of you have chosen to accept my invitation. While you are on my island, I do hope you consider it your home, and avail yourself of all the luxuries we are so pleased to offer you. Tonight, I hope you will all be my guests at a banquet to begin your visit in style. And, of course, you are welcome to visit the gaming hall as much as you like, though I do suggest," and he gave a sly wink that elicited indulgent chuckles from many of the guests, though not from Melisande and Baba Anya, "you do not loosen your purses too much just yet. Tomorrow, I will be explaining the offer which I alluded to in your invitations, but tonight–"

One of the liveried footmen hurried up, and for the first time the beatific smile on Count Vercordi's face flickered. The footman was whispering frantically, and the Count's expression veered from mildly annoyed to a brief flash of genuine alarm. Melisande heard the murmurs from the other guests, and glanced at her godmother. "Something gone wrong?"

Baba Anya shook her head imperceptibly, as in the dark as Melisande. "Be ready."

The Count was visibly struggling to recover the air of bonhomie, and it seemed to be a losing battle. "I apologize, ladies, gentlemen, I have just received word . . . it would appear we have an unexpected guest–"

The main doors above the grand guests' staircase opened with a resounding crash, drawing everyone's attention to the group that had appeared on the landing. The man at the front was clearly, if not a construct, a very modified human, if the extra set of arms was any indication. His expression clearly said he found all of this highly undignified. Behind him, looking somewhat annoyed at the whole business and dressed as suited the heir to the tyrant of Europe, was the young man Melisande had known in Paris as Gil Holzfäller. To the point, whom she knew now from what little Ardsley had told her on his one visit home was in fact Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. Everyone recognized the uniforms of the six soldiers flanking him, weapons held across their chests, not aimed but ready to be so–one of Wulfenbach's crack units.

"Count Vercordi?" The construct's voice carried clearly across the room. Of course given you could have heard a pin drop, that wasn't as impressive as it might otherwise have been. "Baron Wulfenbach sends–"

"Oh, they know who we are, Boris," Gil interrupted, and at least his voice sounded more or less the same. "We've made your grand entrance. Let's try not to disrupt things any more, shall we? After all, the Count was just telling his guests, they're here to enjoy themselves." He brushed past Boris, who managed somehow to look even more displeased, and started down the stairs. The guests nearest the bottom of the steps all moved hastily backwards as the group descended, while trying very hard not to look nervous.

Melisande was dimly aware of the others around her, Baba Anya's murmured "_Bozehemoi,"_ the Roman and the African prince both rising from their chairs while Malmakis nervously turned a gambling chip over and over in his fingers, the rustle of silk as Lady Oyone turned in her chair, but she couldn't focus on any of it. The room was suddenly far too warm, the velvet ribbon of her locket suddenly a strangling tightness around her neck. Her gaze was locked on the man shadowing Gil down the steps, surveying the room as subtly as the Count had been obvious.

Ardsley's gaze finally turned to the baccarat table and its occupants, slid over her, and she saw his entire body jerk as he looked back and froze. Even from a distance, fighting the sudden weakness in her own legs, she saw nothing but the blue eyes and the color draining from his face.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimers in Chapter One...

Ardsley was still following at Gil's elbow, but though his legs were moving and he didn't think he'd stumbled he no longer was aware of anything. The first glance, he'd thought he was wrong, a trick of the light and wishful thinking, but how could he mistake his own wife? Not that he'd ever seen Melisande dressed like this before. Even in the last few days in Paris, she hadn't wanted to waste the money Lord M_ had given them on fine clothes and jewels. Now, she was here, beside her Russian godmother and spymaster, no less, in rich velvet, her beautiful dark hair held up by gold combs he knew she hadn't bought on _his_ salary . . . but in spite of himself, he felt his heart do a little skip as he noted the locket at her throat.

Then he remembered who else would know, if not the face, that piece of jewelry. Like any great Spark, Gil never forgot a device he made (or helped make.)

Ardsley suddenly stumbled, ramming into Gil's shoulder, and he caught the flinches from their guards and the disdaining glare from Dolokhov. Gil, for his part, just looked puzzled as he glanced back. "Wooster? What's wrong?"

He knew he should say nothing, move on, not attract any attention to himself or to her (at least until he could contrive some way of getting her alone and find out what the blazes was going on), but he couldn't help it–he looked straight at Melisande, and Gil followed his gaze. "Nothing," he said, wishing Dolokhov would stop with the suspicious glare, that Gil wouldn't recognize her–

He should have known better.

"Wait, isn't that . . . ." Gil was clearly struggling for the name, but as he did Wooster thought he saw a glimmer of old Gil, Paris Gil. Unfortunately, it seemed to be taking the form of a devious glint. "Your Russian girl, Wooster! That's her, Miss–what's her name."

Doomed. He was doomed. "La Capere," and he hoped, frantically, that Melisande was using that name and not Velyaminova, or worse, her married name, "Melisande La Capere."

"Who?" Dolokhov. Damn it, was nothing going to go right?

"An old acquaintance from Paris," Gil said. "It would be rude not to say hello."

"That hardly seems appropriate," Dolokhov sniffed, "considering the sort of company you reportedly kept," and Ardsley felt an unreasoning surge of anger.

"Oh, not one of my acquaintances," Gil said, "one of Wooster's. Far too ladylike for the sort of things you're implying. I think we should say hello, Wooster. As I recall, wasn't she disappointed in your choice of employers? Might be nice to show her you didn't end up lackey to a monster."

"Sir, I don't know that it's the best idea . . . ." Not before he could speak to Melisande alone, in any case. "Besides, the Count–"

"Boris, why don't you go explain our presence to Count Vercordi?" Gil obviously had decided if he was being sent on this trip, he was going to run things his way. "I'm sure you'll be able to convey my father's interest in the most . . . diplomatic terms possible."

Dolokhov looked as if he wanted to argue, but to Ardsley's relief he restrained himself. "Of course. I'll also need to arrange a security sweep of our rooms, if you're still insisting we stay here instead of on the airship."

"Hm, a land-bound casino full of people I don't see every day, who haven't been vetted by Father's security, or our own private airship?" If sarcasm could kill, Gil would have cleared at least a five-meter radius around himself with that. "Just make sure there are separate accommodations–I'd like a little privacy. Not from the guests, from you and the bodyguards Father seems to think are necessary." Dolokhov grimaced, but departed, and two of the bodyguards detached themselves from the group and followed. "Now, Wooster–"

"Yes, sir?" Please, let Melisande have had the good sense to disappear . . . at least for his sake.

"Let's show your lady friend that you haven't done so badly for yourself after all." Gil headed for the baccarat table with more enthusiasm than he'd shown for anything on this trip so far. Maybe he hadn't changed that much since Paris . . . .

Melisande had not fled, though she did look as if she might faint. Clearly, whatever she'd been expecting (what _had_ she been planning, here dressed like a fine and unmarried lady?) this was not it. Beside her the Countess Dragomirov was watching them approach, apparently fixated on Gil as everyone else was, but Ardsley caught the edge of that emerald glare and wished he could read it better. Melisande, he could see now, was trembling, and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed, and probably a bit more, to keep from breaking and running to her, even here.

Gil stopped in front of the women, and the other players at the table all seemed relieved they were not the objects of a Wulfenbach's attention, and intrigued. "Mademoiselle La Capere, isn't it?"

Melisande drew in a short breath, and Ardsley knew her well enough to see her steady herself. If only she'd look his way, catch his eye, give him some hint . . . . "Gil Holzfäller, as was." Ardsley bit down on a smile of pure pride at her teasing, just-hesitant-enough tone. Then finally her gaze shifted to him, and he was lost in the coffee-colored eyes. "Ardsley."

"So you do you remember us?" Gil gave her a much more reserved half-bow than his Parisian alter ego would have. "My friend here thought you wouldn't."

"I could hardly forget either one of you." Melisande fingered the locket at her throat. "Though you, at least, seem to have come up in the world."

"I don't know about that," Gil said, sounded for an instant painfully honest. "Wooster, here, has a much more respectable position than I do, what with not being a designated future figure of fear. Wooster, aren't you going to say hello?"

Calm voice, even voice, keep the tremor from showing . . . . "Hello, Melisande. It's been a long time." A long time since a morning in the Glass City, James sleeping in his crib near the fire, Melisande trying to keep the tears from showing as he prepared to leave them, again.

"It has." Her tone betrayed nothing, but he thought he saw the same sadness in her eyes.

"And Countess Dragomirov." He couldn't ignore her godmother. A shame she was far too much the professional to give any hint to their purpose here. "A pleasure to see you again."

"I'm sorry," Melisande said, "I'm being terribly rude. Herr Wulfenbach, may I introduce my godmother, the Countess Dragomirov. Baba Anya, Gilgamesh Wulfenbach, whom I knew in Paris under another name. As did many people," and she glanced sideways at Ardsley.

"An honor," said the Countess, sizing Gil up with a quick glance that probably would have been ruder if she didn't look like someone's ideal favorite aunt. "My goddaughter has mentioned you, Herr Wulfenbach. Your true identity was quite a surprise to her. And it is nice to see you again, Ardsley Wooster. We had too brief a meeting when last I saw you."

"Indeed." He was sure she'd had far more choice words than she, or Lord M_, had been able to deliver when confronting agents gone matrimonially rogue. He felt the quick but distinct sharp poke of Gil's elbow, and glanced at his employer. Gil was giving him a pointed look, and when Ardsley only blinked he sighed and tilted his head in Melisande's direction. Was Gil actually trying to be some sort of . . . matchmaker? Or mender? Whatever it was, he apparently wasn't getting out of here with only an inane exchange of pleasantries. "I'm surprised to see you here, Melisande. I didn't know you cared for card games."

"Oh, I'm only here to assist Baba Anya," she said, far too casually. "As for cards, I'm afraid the only game at which I'm at all proficient is solitaire. Have you played it?"

Ardsley's world, which had only moments ago been upended, took another screaming ninety-degree turn that left him blinking. Training took over and from somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he found the correct response and replied "I often enjoy solitaire, but sometimes it's tiresome being the only player." Gil looked perplexed, the Countess just faintly suspicious, but Ardsley was too busy being gobsmacked to care about either.

"_Solitaire"_ was, as of his most recent dispatch from HQ, the recognition code for an in-person contact. The exchange would only be given to identify a fellow agent, the precise words and the leading question unlikely to be something she would say by accident. Lord M_ had to have told her.

Which meant she was not here working for Moscow. Melisande had just given him the signal of an agent of British Intelligence.

What on _Earth_ was going on?

"I didn't take either of you for gamblers, at that," Melisande was saying. "Particularly you, Herr Wulfenbach. I'm surprised your father approves."

Gil shrugged, but Ardsley could feel that wall coming down, closing off whatever part of him dealt with thoughts of the Baron. "My father enjoys testing me. After all, he can't leave Europa to the care of a useless dilettante, can he?"

"You're a Spark," Melisande said, with a soft, almost maternal tone that Ardsley was certain surprised Gil as much as him. "Sparks are many things, but useless is seldom one of them."

"I appreciate the attempt to cheer me up," Gil said, and to Ardsley's ear at least, it sounded sincere. "At least someone I used to know doesn't . . . ." He stopped himself, but Ardsley made a mental note of that. "In any case, it's nice to see you again. Right, Wooster?"

"Yes, sir. It's very nice." And it was, expected or otherwise. "I've . . . I . . . ." What was appropriate for someone who was, after all, here as a servant, to say in front of his employer?

"What my emotionally-disabled, or in other words English, friend is attempting to do is ask for the honor of escorting you into dinner," Gil stepped in. It had all the old Sparkish elan he remembered from Paris, with the added overtone of authority.

"Sir, that would hardly be appropriate." It killed him to say it, but it was the only correct response. "Miss La Capere is here as a guest. I'm merely one of your staff."

"Don't be ridiculous," Gil said. "Boris is staff. You're my gentleman's gentleman, and therefore you're still a gentleman-it's in the job title. Or if you're going to be hopelessly British about, if you're my staff then I'm telling you to do it, so you have to."

That _did_ rather neatly box him into a corner, not that there would have been any point in arguing with Gil even if it didn't. "Yes, sir. Ah, Melisande, despite dinner not even having been called yet, and having no idea if we're being accommodated at it so I may not even be invited, would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you?"

"With such a gracious invitation, how could I say no?" Melisande sounded suspiciously like she was stifling a laugh. Ardsley couldn't blame her–he was about two seconds from a bout of hysterical laughter at the absurdity of the whole situation. "When dinner is announced, of course. And in any case, I'm here to attend my godmother, which means I'm practically a lady's maid, and as such being escorted by a gentleman's gentleman only seems appropriate."

Ardsley laughed, and to his surprise, Gil did, too. "Now that," Gil said, "is what I remember–you were clever. It really is good to know some people don't change."

"I can't imagine Ardsley has, either."

Gil's smile thinned a bit. "Well, as his job title suggests, we've had to change things a little. But that's the story of my life. And here comes my baby-sitter to make sure I'm not enjoying myself too much here, either."

Dolokhov was coming back, looking no more pleased than he had when he was sent on his errand. "The Count is honored to be hosting the son of Baron Wulfenbach," though the Count probably had not quite dripped so much sarcasm on the carpet saying it, "and will be happy to provide several rooms on the top floor, overlooking the sea, which are to be placed entirely at our disposal. And, of course, he would be deeply honored if you and your party would join his other guests for the banquet tonight." He lowered his voice. "I can of course arrange tasters from the security detachment. He glanced rather pointedly at Ardsley. "Unless you wish to use your own personal assistant."

Ardsley bristled, and he saw Melisande's spine straighten. Silently he willed her not to say anything, but he knew that little tightening at the corners of her mouth. Gil, for his part, simply gave Dolokhov a flat, unyielding stare that was uncannily like the kind of look his father was a master of. "I'll take my chances. Look on the bright side—if someone poisons us all, Captain Dupree will have an absolute field day razing this island to the ground."

"That isn't very reassuring," Dolokhov said. His eyes slid back to Melisande, who flinched before hastily lowering her eyes. "You can assure your little friend, Herr Wooster, I'm not a monster." He folded both sets of arms across his chest, though out of irritation or self-consciousness Ardsley wasn't sure.

"Not physically, perhaps," and Melisande said it in Russian. Ardsley had to suppress a gasp and he heard Gil cough, so he'd understood at least the gist.

The Countess clearly understood the entire exchange. "You are being nekulturny, goddaughter."

"I'm not the only one." Melisande had shifted subtly, so she now was not quite beside Ardsley, but angled towards him. The look in her eyes was unmistakable, though—she had clearly decided she did not like Boris Dolokhov, and the number of hands he possessed had nothing to do with it.

Ardsley had always thought his wife was an excellent judge of character.

"Why am I not surprised at Herr Wooster's choice of friends?" Yes, Dolokhov had followed that, too. "Sir," and no one could have missed how the courtesy rankled, "I should go and see about arranging our accommodations and the security. You realize, of course, your father would likely prefer your staying aboard the airship?"

"I realize my father left most of this trip to my judgment," Gil said, and there was real Wulfenbach authority in his voice. "If he wanted to direct every single step I take, he should have come instead of sending me."

Dolokhov froze, and even Ardsley couldn't help a shiver. Even here, far from the Castle and presumably the Baron's ears, hearing such defiance was unnerving. Yet it was impossible to argue with a Spark using that tone of voice. "Very good, sir," Dolokhov said, practically choking. "I'll have the rooms searched and your belongings brought in for your valet to arrange. I'm sure we needn't bother the Count's staff with that sort of housekeeping."

"Of course." Gil had the distinct tone of someone who was agreeing mostly to get the other person to leave. "I'm sure I can trust your judgement in that regard."

Either Dolokhov didn't hear the implied insult, or he didn't think it was worth saying anything. "Yes, sir." He bowed, halfway politely, and the Countess at least rated a polite nod as he turned to go. Ardsley caught the dark, narrow-eyed look the construct gave him, but he didn't hesitate to glare back. If Gil was going to back him up, he might as well take advantage of it.

Besides, having to do his usual respectful scraping and bowing in front of Melisande was too nauseating to contemplate.

"Well, that takes care of that." Gil glanced at Ardsley. "I hope you realize you're probably sleeping in a closet if Boris is assigning the rooms."

"As long as it's far away from him." At the mention of sleeping arrangements he wondered, briefly, whether Melisande was sharing a room with her godmother, how far their rooms would be from his . . . the thought of her so nearby, and their cover stories making contact impossible and he was already distracted.

Melisande was still watching Dolokhov's retreat. "I apologize, Herr Wulfenbach. I believe I insulted your man." She was doing her best to look contrite.

"My father's man," Gil said sharply. "My minder." He paused, drawing in a breath, and Ardsley saw the bitterness, if not drain away, at least recede a bit. "I apologize." He looked past Melisande, and for the first time Ardsley took real note of the other guests around the gaming table. "I apologize to all of you," Gil continued, raising his voice. "I interrupted your game. You play, Mademoiselle La Capere?"

"I was merely observing." She looked as well. There was a dark man at one end of the table who was watching them from beneath hooded eyes, and Ardsley did _not_ appreciate the resentful way the man was looking at his wife. Not, of course, that could make any of the appropriate objections, but it rankled. Down the table, the slender, pale, Oriental woman was sitting regally still, and an African man with the bearing of a king were both doing their best to look unimpressed by the son of the ruler of Europa. The two young nobles, who looked like so many rich young men he'd seen in Paris, didn't look nearly as unintimidated. The last player of baccarat, a pale man with black hair, was studiously not looking at them, with the cool, composed air of someone above noticing the little people. The Countess Dragomirov, he realized, was watching him, something strange in her emerald eyes.

Ardsley cringed inwardly. These people–the highborn, the wealthy, the titled . . . these were Melisande's natural element. Her cousin (second cousin, he forced himself to remember) was the Grand Duke of Moscow, for goodness's sake. She even looked at home in rich velvet and jeweled hairpieces and long gloves trimmed in pearls and gold. And for all Dolokhov was saying it to be cruel, he was right–Ardsley was here as a servant. What a reminder how far she'd married down . . . .

And then he realized she was fingering her locket, apparently a nervous habit, but she was fiddling with it just enough he could hear something rattling inside. She looked up, caught his gaze, and let just the tiniest private smile turn the corners of her lips.

Her wedding ring. Hidden in plain sight.

He _had_ to speak privately to her.

"Will Monsieur be joining us at the table?" The croupier was addressing Gil, who grimaced.

"Wouldn't that just leave my father thrilled?" he asked rhetorically. "No, I'm afraid not. Not at the moment, anyway. And if I do join you later, don't expect me to use Father's empire as table stakes."

The players looked away uncomfortably, except the dark-haired man who was still not looking at them. He continued to toy with a card, turning it over in his fingers, and said "Only a madman would want to win it."

Melisande's eyes widened, and Ardsley felt his mouth go dry. He saw similar expressions on the faces of the others, and did not dare look at Gil. That was all too close to a direct insult to the Baron–Dolokhov would probably have been calling out the guards if he'd still been within earshot.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Gil sighed. "Well, so much for that avenue of escape." Had that actually been a joke?

Before Ardsley could think of a tactful way to ask, the loud clang of a gong rang out over the room. Another of Count Vercordi's gaudily-dressed staff stood at the far end of the floor and announced that dinner was served in the banquet hall, and would the guests please proceed there (unspoken was, unless they would prefer to keep losing their fortunes at the gaming tables.)

Gil straightened his shoulders and looked around. "I suppose that includes us, eh, Wooster?" His gaze settled on the Countess Dragomirov. "Countess, would you do me the honor?"

Melisande's godmother looked startled, but quickly recovered her aplomb. "The honor is mine, Herr Wulfenbach. You do an old woman a great kindness."

"Old? Perish the thought." Now, _that_ sounded like the Gil of Paris, if a trace more sincere. "You could be Mademoiselle La Capere's sister." As he offered his arm with a courtly air, he glanced over his shoulder at Ardsley, and when that wasn't enough of a hint jerked his head pointedly in Melisande's direction. "Wooster . . . ."

Ardsley hoped he could keep his face under control–well, face, and the rest of him. "Mademoiselle, if you will permit me?" Mademoiselle, as if she were an unmarried girl, not his own wife, his son's mother . . . .

She hesitated, for show or fear of her own loss of control he wasn't certain. "Of course." And she slipped her arm through his and he felt the warm press of her velvet-clad body against his side. Before his mind could wander off on that intoxicating tangent, she pressed just a bit closer and murmured _sotto voce_, in English, "Be careful of my gloves. They're a gift from your aunt."

Suddenly the heavy gold cording around her wrist took on a heart-stopping new dimension (literally, for all he knew.) "We need to talk," he murmured through his teeth as they fell in a respectful two paces behind Gil and the Countess.

"How? We won't be alone at dinner." Her lips were fixed in a serene smile and barely moved as she spoke.

An excellent question. As they went up the steps to the ground floor, he remembered the serene courtyard he'd observed outside as they'd made their rushed entrance to the fortress-cum-casino. The serene, cool, deserted courtyard. But what excuse would be proper?

Of course. It would either work flawlessly, or Gil, who probably remembered those last days in Paris, would assume they were simply looking for a private corner to renew an old acquaintance. Either way, ideal.

"Swoon," he whispered back.

"What?" He saw the raised brow out of the corner of his eye.

"Pretend you're faint. I'll catch you."

An instant's pause, and he sensed she understood. They took two more steps and suddenly she staggered against him, a dead weight on his arm, and he found himself really grabbing to keep her on her feet as she moaned softly. "Mademoiselle?" It was so convincing an act he barely had to feign the concern.

Gil looked over his shoulder and stopped abruptly, and the Countess (with a flicker of recognition as quickly hidden as Melisande's own had been) cried, "Melisande!"

"The heat," she gasped, leaning against Ardsley's shoulder as he tried to both hold her up and solicitously fan her. "I was overcome . . . ."

"It's terribly warm in here," Ardsley said, realizing the other guests were starting to notice. "Perhaps, the night air . . . .?"

"Yes," and she was almost too quick saying it, but she put a convincing gasp to the words, "yes, that will help. Ardsley, if you would please . . . ."

"Of course," and it was hard to remember she was only pretending, "that is, sir, if–"

"For heaven's sake, Wooster, don't stand on ceremony when a lady's in distress." Gil looked worried himself, but for someone who was, after all, a doctor, he was not exactly rushing to assist. Did he suspect? As Ardsley gently guided Melisande (still leaning heavily on him, her breathing shallow) towards the door, he risked a look at Gil–and caught a devilish gleam in his "master's" eyes, and a hasty, half-hidden thumbs up.

Oh, he suspected. Exactly the wrong conclusion, but that suited their purposes just as well. Ardsley tried to manage at least half a smile in return before half-leading, half-carrying his fainting wife out into the garden with its fairy lights and secluded corners. He couldn't help but glance down at the neckline of her dress as he did, and how the corset he could feel beneath the soft velvet enhanced certain of her assets that he'd been dreaming about for months. Maybe Gil wasn't entirely wrong about his purposes after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Disclaimers in chapter one. And if anyone is wondering, the new character's name (Velocia Muliera) is pronounced "vehl-oh-chee-ah mu-lee-ehr-a". _Veloce _is Italian for 'fast', _mulier_ is Latin for 'adult woman.' If anyone is wondering, as pointed out in a previous chapter, Melisande's last name comes from the Latin 'to ensnare', or in other words, 'to trap'. _Mel_ in Greek and Latin means "honey." So everyone gets a Bond Girl name.

Also, there is some language-switching going on that's hard to replicate when of course I'm writing in English! For reference-I assume the Wulfenbach group is usually speaking German when they're in private (I'm also guessing from the comic and Wooster's rather sarcastic "dosvidanya" and the generals calling him "gospodin" that Dolokhov speaks Russian, but it's not the common language.) Melisande and Anya, when alone, speak Russian and French. In private, Melisande and Ardsley speak English. The common language of the guests and the staff is a mix of French and Italian.

Finally (yes, long note!), we'll be getting an occasional POV from another character, starting with the end of this chapter.

The warm night air of the Mediterranean was refreshing even without her actually having been overcome by the heat. Melisande kept leaning on Ardsley's shoulder as they crossed the gravel of the drive and moved down one of the stone paths in the garden. One never knew who was watching, after all, and she did not want Gil Wulfenbach, or that too-sharp-eyed construct with him, to pay much attention.

And of course it was heaven simply to have Ardsley holding her again. She was still not entirely certain this wasn't all a very surreal dream, but it certainly felt real enough. Especially the uneasy sense that he was, to put it mildly, very upset. The look on his face when he'd seen her, the tension she could still feel through his entire frame, the tight set to his jaw—he was, at minimum, not best pleased. From the speed with which he was moving down the garden path, she was going to find out why in short order.

Ardsley turned into what must have been one of the little private nooks the driver earlier had mentioned, a cul-de-sac of thick boxwood taller than even his head with a stone bench at the dead end. Releasing her arm (carefully; he clearly knew what sort of decorative elements would be on gloves his aunt made) he turned to face her, and the tense, angry look in his eyes almost frightened her. "Ardsley, I—"

He had her by the shoulders and was kissing her before she could finish the thought. Melisande was almost too startled to respond. Almost.

She'd forgotten how thoroughly he could kiss her when he had a mind to.

Minutes, hours later, she wasn't sure how long it had been, he seemed to remember they both had to breathe. Melisande sighed and rested her head against his shoulder as he settled them both on the bench, wishing the inevitable shop talk could be postponed indefinitely.

It couldn't, of course. "Melisande, love . . . ." He sighed, and pressed his face to her hair. "What are you _doing_ here?"

_Right now_, she thought, breathing in the warm scent of him,_ being more content than I have been in months_. He smelled of slightly-astringent soap, warm, clean wool, and just a trace of engine oil. "At the moment?"

His shoulders twitched as he stifled a laugh. "You know what I mean."

She sighed. Work before pleasure. "England did not receive an invitation to the Count's party. Moscow did. Lord M_ and Baba Anya decided that our agencies would cooperate, and considering my position, I was the logical choice to represent Her Majesty's interests." She looked up. "Lord M_ gave me the recognition code on the off chance he had to send help. We didn't think I'd have to use it with you. What are _you _doing here? We knew the Wulfenbachs very specifically were not on the guest list!"

"And that's stopped the Baron . . . when, precisely?" Ardsley raised an eyebrow. Melisande slapped his arm, not as hard as she could have. He made a show of rubbing it, but said "I think this is more about testing Gil than any real concerns about what Count Vercordi has planned."

"I'm not sure that's such a good way of thinking," Melisande said. "You know we were all brought here as potential buyers for something? And whatever it is, it's something he seems to think private interests and small governments without much in the way of Sparkish inventions will want. Hence England not being officially on the guest list."

"Isn't your cousin a Spark?"

"Not a very strong one." If she'd had any doubts about her personal loyalties, the ease with which that comment came to her certainly answered them. Of course, pressed close to her husband, with his arm around her waist and her head resting on his shoulder, she couldn't imagine considering any other allegiance. "Alexei is better at making mechanical toys than war machines. That's why they spend so much of their assets on espionage, and why the Baron, more or less, leaves the Duchy alone."

"They?" Ardsley twirled a loose lock of her hair around his finger.

She sighed and closed her eyes. "I'm English now. Or had you forgotten?"

He didn't reply, but pressed a kiss to her temple. "What did she offer you to come back?"

Of course he'd know. "My safety. James extracted from England." She heard the muffled snort of derision. "You brought in, if it was possible. Since I wouldn't tell her where you were, she didn't know how implausible that was. She does now." Melisande sighed. She was not privy to her godmother's method of communicating with Moscow on this trip, but she had little doubt whenever the report went, it would include the fact that Britain had an agent placed very, very close to the Baron. "And, of course I would see my parents again. I'm not even certain they know I have a son–I would think Baba Anya's told them, but . . . ." Something in her throat thickened, and she bit back the words.

"Oh, love." Ardsley held her quietly for a moment. "Such a life I've given you."

Guilt gnawed at her. "No! I wouldn't change it." Doubt, regret . . . any one of those could mean he was distracted at the wrong moment, let something slip, and everyone knew how the Wulfenbachs treated traitors and spies. "I admit, though, one reason I agreed to all this–leaving James, coming here, working with Baba Anya–is that if Uncle Oleg finds me useful, cooperative, he might decide despite everything it's not worth having me killed. Although I did kill his daughter."

"Only because she was a fool. And trying to kill us." Time, clearly, had not dulled any of Ardsley's anger at her late cousin Katia. "And she tortured you."

"You weren't even conscious for that part." Melisande, unfortunately, had been. It hadn't been until Ardsley had gone, and she'd been alone with time to think, that the nightmares of Katia and her knife had started. One of the advantages of James's typical infant insomnia had been they'd finally faded away. Sleep deprivation had its up side. "Katia was always rash. Maybe Uncle Oleg will remember that eventually, especially if I'm helpful. It would be nice for my parents to meet their son-in-law and grandson without the entire thing needing to be a stealth operation." Though considering their profession, that was not entirely as outlandish as it sounded . . . .

"Well, if he doesn't, at least infiltration is something we're both experienced at. James will just have to start young."

"Was that a joke?" Melisande opened her eyes, and in the pale glow of the fairy lights she could see the glint in her husband's eye. "Shame on you, teasing when I'm serious!" But despite her own acting skills, she couldn't hold down a giggle. "As always, long-term plans assume we'll live through the next few days. Besides our host, I suspect that will also depend on your employer. Is he still . . . he seemed rather sad just now."

Ardsley shook his head. "I don't know. I truly don't. Ever since he returned from Paris he's gotten more and more . . . withdrawn. Stressed. Unhappy. Anything anyone suggests, like visiting the students on the Castle, just makes him more unhappy. And by unhappy, I mean punitively so. I suppose it can't be easy, being the son of the tyrant of Europa, and it's true what he said–everything with his father's a test. If that's typical parenting, I think I've finally found an up side to being an orphan."

"Typical Spark parenting, perhaps. Though you didn't turn out so bad, considering your aunt."

"I'm not under the sort of pressure Gil is."

Melisande heard a faint alarm in the back of her mind. There was sympathy in Ardsley's tone, just a little too much, come to that. "You aren't . . . you remember he's not really your master, yes?"

"What?" Ardsley blinked, and then his expression darkened. "You don't think I'd actually forget why I'm here, do you? That I'm such a natural minion, I'd . . . ." He caught himself. "Sorry. It's just-"

"No, I didn't mean that," Melisande said, though that wasn't entirely true. "It's just . . . I know what it's like to sympathize too much with your target, that's all."

Ardsley chuckled. "I had noticed that. No, don't worry. Considering what his father would do to me if I blew my cover, it pays to remember that he's still the baron's madboy son. I just . . . I think he's lonely. For some reason, he won't talk to the friends he had before Paris, and it's not as if there are a plethora of options for new friends aboard the Castle. There's-well, he has me and Zoing, and of course I'm not really what he thinks, either. It must be terribly lonely, your only friend a lying spy and a construct who looks like a blue lobster."

Melisande considered that, and thought about the Gil she remembered from Paris and the Gil she had met tonight. "I suppose that's one advantage to being a Spark. At least he can build some friends out of spare parts."

There was a long pause. "You are joking, aren't you?" She looked up, and did her best wide-eyed innocent look, minus the batting eyelashes as that would probably be taking things a bit far. Ardsley gave her a narrow-eyed look, and she couldn't could stifle the giggle any longer. "Little minx! It's not funny. Especially when you're the one who has to dig up the construction materials!" But he was visibly biting down a laugh before he kissed her.  
There was another, longer pause in the conversation as they tried to make up for lost time as much as was possible while clothed and in what was still, technically, public. It wasn't unlike Paris and afternoons in secluded corners of the Bois, except of course then they hadn't known exactly what they were missing.

Ardsley nuzzled the very sensitive spot at the crook of her neck and she shuddered. "I dream about this, you know," he murmured. "The scent of your hair. How your skin tastes. Some nights it's more than I can stand, knowing what I'm missing . . . ."

"I know exactly how you feel." How many nights had she lain awake, wondering if he was all right? The Pax Wulfenbach did mean the Castle was unlikely to be attacked from outside, but Gil, well-intentioned or no, was still a Spark, Sparks had labs, labs had accidents . . . and spies were caught. Spies were caught, and tortured, and executed. She'd known what would have happened to her if she'd carried out Uncle's original plan and entered England as an enemy agent—when she was caught, she'd have vanished to one of the Service's many little houses, some on the northern islands far away from other humans, with only seagulls and selkies to hear you scream or see you staggering in a truth-drugged stupor. Eventually they'd have tossed her body in the sea, or sent her back alive and broken beyond repair as a warning, unless she'd turned double for them. She'd grown up knowing that enemy agents sent to Siberia would not ever come back, and it would not be the cold that killed them. And most of all, she knew whatever Britain and the Duchy did to their enemies, what Baron Wulfenbach would do would be worse.

And, on a more practical level, there were things about having a husband that she missed terribly, and would even if she knew he was perfectly safe. Ardsley, clearly, felt the same way about missing his wife. Unfortunately, they'd been gone long enough as it was, and if she didn't put a stop to this now (no matter how much his eager hands and enthusiastic mouth might be making her ache) someone was likely to come looking. "Ardsley, dearest, much as I hate to stop—"

He groaned, but sat back. "Someone's going to wonder where we are."

"And I'm afraid it will be that awful construct your 'master' brought along." She wondered at what it had taken to add a second set of arms–who had even thought of doing something like that? What on Earth possessed a Spark to look at a perfectly normal human being and decide they had an insufficient number of limbs, might as well tack a few on?

"It's not his fault," and Ardsley did not sound especially thrilled to be defending the man. "The Baron overthrew the Spark that . . . altered Dolokhov. I don't know the details, but he didn't particularly ask to be made into what he is. Rumor has it when the Baron came, his principle job had been keeping his master's library and juggling. The Baron doesn't make him perform like a circus freak."

"That doesn't excuse his manners." She sniffed. "Suggesting they use _you_ as a taster; I've half a mind to slip something into his food. I could do it, too, I do have a work kit along."

"Using work supplies for a personal vendetta? Very unprofessional of you, my love." Not that he hadn't considered it, more than once. "Please don't kill Boris. Or even just make him ill. He's unbearable enough as it is. I can't imagine what he'd be like if Gil had to bring him back from the dead."

"Oh, I wasn't serious." Mostly. "I don't think Lord M_ would view that as valid use of my best discretion and the Devonshire case aside I'm still a bit on probation there."

Ardsley nodded absently-he'd been looking down the hedge, obviously checking that the coast was clear–and then he looked back at her blankly. "Your best discretion?"

_Damn, damn, damn . . . _for a professional spy she was terrible at letting things slip, at least where Ardsley was concerned. "I told you about that mess with the Duke. They appreciated not requiring a public trial, and as Lord M_ put it, if I could manage that in my delicate condition, the situation could count as my two. You didn't think they'd send someone here who'd have to wait for orders if the situation requires someone's . . . removal?"

For a moment, she thought he was angry, until she saw the slightly wounded look below the furrowed brow. "After _one_ mission? It took them three years to decide I was responsible enough for that level of discretion! One mission, at home no less, and you're licensed to kill?"

"There, there, dear," and she gave him a consoling (and as much as was possible with a kiss, sarcastic) peck on the cheek. "Remember, I did have prior experience. With you they were working from scratch."

"That's still . . . and besides, this sort of work is dangerous. It's _not_ what I had in mind when you went to England."

"Going to try that whole 'I am your husband and you vowed to honor and obey me' line?" She arched an eyebrow. "I warn you, it works about as well as a Spark trying the old 'I am your master' argument."

"Actually, I was thinking of trying the 'I'm senior field agent on this operation and I'm telling you to stay out of danger' strategy, but as Lord M_ outranks both of us and sent you, that won't work either." Ardsley gave her what she knew was his best sideways glare. "You just wait until I'm home for good. We'll see what Lord M_ says then about you doing assassinations."

"When you are home for good, I will happily retire completely from field work." She knew they were supposed to be making their way back before someone noticed their lengthy absence (how she was going to explain her mussed hair was another matter) but she slid her arms around his neck anyway, pulling him down for a kiss. "As long as you're _home_," she murmured against his mouth.

"As soon as I'm possibly able." He held her as if, if only he held tightly enough, he could pause time and give them a few more minutes alone.

There was a crunching of steps on the gravel drive.

Melisande suppressed a very unladylike curse and took a discrete step back, smoothing her skirts and attempting to pat her hair back into some semblance of order. Maybe she could say she got it caught in a shrubbery. "If that is your friend Dolokhov I'm going to be even more put out than I already am."

"We'll just have to look very innocent and offended at the suggestion we're doing anything untoward." Ardsley adjusted his coat and vest, and Melisande reached up to straighten his collar. "Of course we're not. After all, what could be more proper than a married couple taking a quiet turn around the garden? That is, of course, if we could tell him that's all it is without his reporting me to his employer. And his head quite possibly exploding."

"As that would be messy and I only have two nice dresses for this whole trip, let's avoid that."

"Blood _is_ difficult to clean out." He gave his waistcoat a final, studiously fussy tug, and offered her his arm. "I suppose we'd best find out. If you would permit me, Mademoiselle?"

"Why, thank you, kind sir." Once again, when she took his arm she pressed a little closer than was strictly necessary. It wasn't enough, but for now it was all she'd get. Still, she had the layout of the place memorized, and if there was a chance Ardsley would have a room to himself, a quiet room, one well away from prying eyes and too-sensitive ears . . . .

That or she'd just have to convince Baba Anya to spend a _very_ late night at the gaming tables soon. She'd understand. If she didn't, Melisande could always bring up a certain young British agent named Bernard, and a certain mission in Vienna all those years ago. At the very least her godmother would be too embarrassed to argue the point further.

They rounded the corner to the main path and nearly collided with a woman. Melisande stumbled, and Ardsley almost didn't steady her, taking a step back himself as they both skidded on the stone path. "I beg your pardon–"

"Oh, no," and the woman had a low, rich voice with an accent that was probably local. "The fault is mine."

She was tall, with dark red hair swept into a sleek, unadorned chignon that immediately made Melisande even more conscious of her mussed updo. Instead of an evening gown, the other woman wore a variation on the Count's green and gold livery–a much more closely-tailored long coat over a gold dress. A very form-fitting gold dress. With a neckline Melisande was quite sure was being held up only by some sort of Sparkish intervention as no conventional dressmaker could possibly be that cunning.

The smile on those full lips was almost entirely directed at Ardsley. "I do apologize, but Count Vercordi was informed of the young lady's indisposition and he sent me to make certain she was all right. I can see she was in excellent hands." As she spoke, she twitched her shoulders back, straining the gold dress and credulity to the limit.

"Ah–yes, I was just–we're fine, thank you. I am sorry, I didn't mean to almost run you down, Miss . . . ?" Ardsley was doing far too good a job of acting stunned, though Melisande felt a faint squeeze of his hand on hers.

The redhead's smile broadened just a bit, but it still wasn't quite enough to touch her eyes. "Your pardon. I am Count Vercordi's assistant, Velocia Muliera."

"I'll just bet you are," Melisande murmured under her breath. Now she felt the point of an elbow.

Velocia either didn't understand or was under instructions to be polite to guests. "If you'd like, I can escort you both to dinner. I'm afraid you've missed the first course."

"I'm sure we can find our way back, Miss Muliera. I do thank you for your concern but I believe Miss La Capere is quite recovered now." Finally it registered–Ardsley was being _English _nearly to the point of incapacitation_._ Stilted, stammering, overapologizing and just a touch more formal than the situation demanded, it was a combination of traits guaranteed to drive those from less notoriously-formal countries straight up the nearest convenient wall. Which, in Melisande's experience, was precisely why they did it.

"We were simply renewing a prior acquaintance–old school friends, as it were, what?"

Of course there were times when they laid it on a bit too thick.

"Yes, very dear friends," she said, tightening her hold on his arm. She felt Ardsley twitch with what she suspected was a repressed laugh and that was somehow more annoying. "You may tell your master that I appreciate his concern but I am feeling much better now. it was simply the heat."

"He will be gratified to hear that." Smooth as silk, painfully polite, annoyingly reminiscent of her late cousin. "We would not wish for the Countess Dragomirov's guest to be indisposed. Now, if you will please?" She gestured back to the main entrance, and it was clear they were getting an escort whether they wanted one or not. Given how . . . closely-cut the dress and coat were, it was hard to believe the majordomo was hiding a weapon anywhere, but then how many people would have guessed Melisande had a climbing rope concealed on her wrist? Safer to cooperate.

Having Velocia at their back meant conversation was, more or less, at an end. Ardsley made some inane comment about the lovely garden, Melisande replied with something equally insipid about the lights, and the frustration was enough to give her heartburn. That or she just really was hungry. What she really wanted to comment on was how, instead of being lead, they were being driven, with the distinct sense the Count's lackey did not want them wandering off unsupervised. She made a note to do precisely that.

"What does our host have planned for us tomorrow, Miss Muliera?" Ardsley asked over his shoulder, giving them both an excuse to look back at their minder.

"Why, whatever our guests would like to do, of course." The smile was so perfectly sincere it had to be a lie. "There is of course the casino, the gardens, bathing in the sea, and while there are not too many places to ride, of course the Count's stables are at guests' disposal."

"Stables?" Melisande's ears perked up. "Real horses, not mechanical?"

"Certainly, if you wish." Velocia's beatific smile never wavered. "But if you prefer something more predictable than a living animal, we of course can accommodate-"

Melisande bristled. "I'm from Moscow. I can certainly ride a proper horse!" The tremor she felt shake Ardsley's whole body was for certain him choking down a laugh and she resisted the urge to kick him in the ankle.

Volecia's smile turned just the faintest bit superior. "Of course. If you wish to go riding, simply inform one of the staff and the stable will have a horse ready for you."

"That sounds lovely. I haven't been riding in ages." She smiled sweetly "Maybe if your master doesn't require your services all day, Ardsley dear, we could both go."

"I'll be sure to ask, but I'm afraid Master Gilgamesh can be quite . . . demanding of my time." Ardsley glanced down at her, and the regret in his eyes stabbed at her heart. She pressed his hand, subtle but firm.

"Yes," and for the first time there was something other satin-smooth politeness in Volecia's tone. "You must have been quite put out, having to pack for him on short notice. Did your master just decide to join us at the last minute?"

It was Ardsley's turn to smile with utter professional civility. "I'm afraid I don't know, Miss. I'm only his valet, and not privy to those sorts of things."

For one, beautiful instant, Volecia's facade cracked, just a hair, but the sheer annoyance glowed like a beacon. Then she was instantly back to the polished, smiling professional obsequiousness. "Of course. I didn't mean to pry."

_Of course not. _Melisande kept the dripping sarcasm to herself, though. "Still, even a slave-driving employer has to allow some time off? It's such a lovely island, it would be a shame to spend all your time picking up after Gilgamesh Wulfenbach."

"That _is _my job, I'm afraid." She heard the wistful note, though, and only Volecia's presence kept her from reminding him that even Sparks had to sleep at some point.

Inside, the banquet hall was as lavish and aglow with lights as the rest of Count Vercordi's domain. Their guide stopped at the entrance, and Melisande noted how the gold dress and the green jacket's gold trim glittered in the lights. Had the colors been chosen to compliment the lights, or the other way around? It depended, she supposed, on whether the Count valued gold or illusion more. The room was set with two long tables, parallel to each other, and no head table or anyone seated at the head or feet. Once again, there was no sign of their host, but more of the liveried staff were moving among the guests, serving what appeared to be the fish course.

"You're seated by the Countess, Mademoiselle La Capere," Volecia said, gesturing. "And your master at the top of the far table, Monsieur." Apparently, mere valets didn't rate assistants remembering their names. She still gave him the sort of stunning smile that somehow managed to draw a male onlooker's eyes to that spectacular neckline.

This time Melisande did place her heel, lightly, on Ardsley's instep. He got the point and coughed, looking away. "Thank you, Miss Muliera. I'll just escort Miss La Capere to her seat."

"Yes, thank you for all your help. That will be all, though. We can find our way from here." Melisande used the most crisp, dismissive, speaking-to-the-servants tone she could muster, the sort most nobles at home reserved for the kind of serfs who cleaned the latrines. If she'd taken that tone with Hudson, she had little doubt their 'butler' would have slapped her silly.

Just as Volecia Muliera looked like she wanted to.

The redhead swallowed the rage, and gave them another perfect smile. "Enjoy your dinner," and she stepped aside.

Ardsley guided Melisande down the table towards the empty seat besides Baba Anya. "Was the tone really necessary, darling?" He spoke in Romany, one language they had in common few of the guests were likely to know even if they overheard the clenched-teeth whisper.

"She was flirting with you," Melisande replied in kind. "I do have to defend my territory."

"No, lover," he murmured, stopping as they reached the empty seat, "you have nothing to worry about at all." He switched back to the lingua franca of the room and pulled out her chair for her . "I am glad you're feeling better, Mademoiselle. I do hope I will see more of you while we're here."

"Thank you, Ardsley. I'm very sure you will." And she looked up from beneath lowered lashes and smiled.

From the look in his eyes as her meaning registered, she had nothing to worry about from the flirting Miss Muliera after all. At least, not where he was concerned.

Ardsley bowed politely, and then nodded to Baba Anya. "Countess."

"Thank you for your assistance to my niece," she said. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"I only wish it were under different circumstances, madame." He had certainly perfected the slightly servile voice and the bow. "Excuse me, please, I must see to Master Gilgamesh."

Melisande sighed as he walked away, and then glanced down at her plate. "Sea bass?"

"You missed the soup course," and she suspected the slight admonition in her godmother's voice was real. "I do hope you're feeling better?"

"Quite. The heat was uncomfortable, but I'm better now." Instead of picking at her meal, she looked, as casually as possible, at their fellow diners. Most of the baccarat players appeared to be at their table, and the so-called "American", Sir William. Across from her she recognized the sharp-eyed brunette who'd been standing behind the Roman, but noticed he was conspicuous by his absence. "Your . . . companion is not dining with us, Madame . . . ."

"Valentine," the woman said, "Madame Valentine. And no, my husband is, like yourself, finding the climate not to his taste this evening. He'll dine later, I'm sure." She fingered the ruby choker at her throat. "He did beg everyone's pardon, but he went to take a turn outside. You can appreciate that."

"Yes." There was something about that Melisande did not like–not having seen this Valentine anywhere outside, for a start, but then she had been unprofessionally distracted. And, as she'd already attracted enough attention tonight, it wasn't a line of questioning she could politely pursue. For now. "Tell me, Sir William," she said, in her best brightly vapid tone, bracing herself for the sort of dinner conversation she hadn't endured in well over a year now, "what brings you to the Count's lovely retreat?"

At the opposite end of the dining room, Boris Dolokhov was enjoying a halfway-decent piece of fish and a very decent sulk. He did not, as a general rule, indulge in sulking, but to say he found the company, the circumstances and the entire plan, such as it was, thoroughly unpleasant would be a minor understatement. Surely the Baron could have had found someone, anyone, more suitable to . . . child-minding than him.

Not, of course, that Gilgamesh Wulfenbach was a child. He glanced surreptitiously at the 'young master', who was having the sort of perfectly civil dinner conversation with the Lady Oyone that no one ever expected from a Wulfenbach. Really, did they think all Sparks were not only occasionally mad but uncivilized? That the Baron enforced order and law out of some perverse desire to behave like a monster himself? True, he could be cruel, but never unfairly so, and his son was expected to behave as a proper future leader of Europa, assuming as always he didn't create some sort of self-destructive monster in his lab that destroyed him before that happened. If it did, of course, there might be enough parts left that it wouldn't be a total loss.

A figure entered the corner of Boris's vision and he grimaced. Maybe a reconstructed Gil could be given better taste in hangers-on.

The English valet stopped at Gil's elbow and made a polite bow. Very good at being polite, that one, polite and obsequious and with just something faintly _wrong_ about the whole business. "I apologize for being gone so long sir, but Mademoiselle La Capere is recovered now. Was there anything you required?"

Gil gave Wooster a deceptively quick glance. "And her recovery somehow resulted in your top button coming undone?"

The English were such a pale people, Boris thought, it really made it far too evident when they were embarrassed. "Just . . . I'm sure I only caught it on something, sir," he said, fumbling at it. "I do apologize–"

"I'm teasing, Wooster." That sigh was far too regretful to suit a Wulfenbach. "Sit down and eat."

"That really wouldn't be appropriate, sir–"

"I say it is. Sit."

Boris shuddered in spite of himself. There were times when the boy did sound more than a bit like his father. Clearly, the valet heard the tone just as clearly and he sat in the chair indicated, though he glanced in what he probably thought was a surreptitious way back across the room. From his own seat, Boris could only see the back of the Russian girl's head, but he noted her hair combs were positioned differently than they had been before she'd been "taken ill" and the her hair in general seemed somehow messier. Sometimes an eidetic memory came in handy in ways both unusual and rather unsettling. It often, he reflected as he glanced at the annoying Englishman (who was studiously avoiding meeting anyone's gaze but who, like his lady friend, looked somehow more . . . mussed than he had earlier), meant he remembered things and drew conclusions that he really would rather not.

If tonight was anything to go by, this was going to be a painfully long stay.


	6. Chapter 6

Ardsley had trained himself to wake up earlier than he really preferred, as several of his tasks as a valet needed to be done before his master woke. That was especially true on this trip as Zoing was not along to take care of the tea-making (the little blue construct could be downright dangerous about defending the tea kettle from interlopers.) As he hadn't slept especially well in the first place, it was easier than usual this morning. They had indeed been given a suite of rooms on the top floor, with some overlooking the ocean, and the main sitting room had the proper accouterments for setting up a breakfast tea. Despite his state of mind the night before (thoroughly muddled, making his normal procedure of memorizing the layout of their floor, gauging how accessible the windows and doors were to potential intruders, noting how many places in his own quarters could be used to conceal weapons and encryption materials, borderline impossible) he had requested that a hot-water urn and the makings of a light breakfast be brought into the sitting room. Gil generally expected at least tea, and while Boris might be paranoid about needing tasters it was sensible to control what went into their food as much as possible.

Plus, he thought, lighting the coals for the hot water and considering his options with the fresh eggs (untampered, still in their shells), he was increasingly convinced the major reason Sparks needed minions was without them, it was entirely possible they'd starve to death from sheer forgetfulness. Once they were in the madness place things like food, water, basic hygiene, and clothing frequently came in distant also-rans to whether or not a common household toast rack had the conductive ability to channel four million volts. They needed their household staff, and not just laboratory minions, or there'd be far more Sparks found naked, cold, and dehydrated, slumped over the latest plans for a device that would turn entire towns to cheese.

Rather than only the one or two per year on the Castle alone.

Unlike the Castle, where Gil had as many broadsheets from cities across the Empire sent to him as was feasible, and there was always a stack of papers his father thought the heir to the whole business should be reading, there was nothing to place on the tray for reading material. Ardsley suspect Boris might have some of those 'important papers' along, but if the disagreeable man didn't feel like informing him or leaving them out, they wouldn't be troubling Gil. Considering the turn the situation had taken, anything that kept Gil from getting annoyed was fine with him. He'd deal with Boris Dolokhov's temper if that was what it took.

The eggs were just done poaching and he had them on the toast and the tray arranged when the door to Gil's room opened. "You know, they could probably have fixed that for you," he said. His voice sounded slightly raspy from sleep, but Ardsley had learned never to make the mistake of thinking a Gil willing to talk to you was anything other than an alert Gil. "Going on the dinner here last night, their kitchen could probably manage eggs and toast."

"I'm certain they could, sir, but much as I'm loathe to agree with Herr Dolokhov, it did seem prudent to control as much of our food ourselves as is feasible." He filled a teacup and added a dash of milk, a little more ostentatiously than was really necessary. "Besides, as I know how you take your tea, training someone else for just a few days seems . . . excessive."

"I suppose it does." Gil sipped the tea and nodded approvingly. "And Boris might worry about everything but that doesn't mean he's wrong."

"An excellent point, sir." Ardsley watched as Gil took a piece of toast and egg and slouched into one of the plush chairs by the fireplace, clearly heedless of crumbs. "So far it doesn't seem as if there's much to worry about, but that can always change."

"And there definitely is something strange going on. Oh, stop standing on ceremony and eat," he added, sounding genuinely annoyed. "At least have some tea. It's not like I don't know you have to eat. I've seen you do it."

"You weren't my employer at the time, sir." He poured himself a cup anyway, as it was easier than arguing. Sitting would still be taking things too far.

It also meant his back was safely turned and he was still adding milk and sugar when Gil asked, "So what sort of plans do you and your Miss La Capere have while you're here?"

The sugar tongs clattered against the bowl and he only just stifled a curse. "Well, sir, I hadn't thought it wise to make any commitments without knowing your plans. I am, after all, responsible to you first–"

"Oh, for God's sake, Wooster." Gil set down his teacup. "I seem to recall in Paris you never having a problem finding time for her."

"That was Paris." And while most of it had indeed been blissful, they'd also nearly been killed, though Gil of course didn't know that. "Here . . . I'm just your valet. She's a countess's goddaughter. It's not as if I'm here as a guest."

"And she was so conscious of social class she 'fainted' on your arm last night," and Gil went so far as to mime the quotes around the word, "and you spent nearly a half-hour helping her recover. Clearly, the lady is utterly horrified by your relative lack of social position."

No one did sarcasm quite like a Wulfenbach.

"Really, Wooster, just because some of us are doomed to have our personal lives dictated to us down to the last detail doesn't mean you should be a martyr just for the sake of it. Believe me, you're not missing out on anything." Gil slouched further down in his chair, contemplating his toast and egg as if it were the source of his misery.

"With respect, sir, you never seemed like the type to lack for female company." Though also in fairness, he'd never observed Gil actually being the rakehell he presented himself as.

"Company's one thing. Someone my father approves of to marry? That's another matter." Gil stared morosely at the toast. "I'm not just Gil Holzfäller any more. My decisions have serious consequences for the Empire. And while there's nothing I can do about that, there's no reason you should make yourself miserable just so I don't feel singled out."

Before Ardsley could think of another excuse, and given Gil's apparent mood they were only getting weaker, there was a knock at the door. In spite of himself he tensed automatically, then forced himself to relax and looked at Gil. "Sir?"

"Well, answer it." Gil smirked in spite of his apparent mood. "Maybe it's your Melisande."

"Sir, really," but he had to admit he half-hoped . . . when he opened the door, however, he found another of their host's liveried servants. The man bowed respectfully, in a sincere way Ardsley had never quite managed himself. "Yes?"

"I beg your pardon," and the servant also neatly managed the line between self-effacing and unctuous. "I apologize for disturbing everyone so early, but I have a message, sir." He indicated the envelope on his perfectly-balanced tray (gold, not silver, though Ardsley imagined it had to be plating. No one was that wealthy.)

"I can take it to Herr Wulfenbach," he started to say, but the servant politely interrupted.

"Excuse me, sir, but the message is for an Ardsley Wooster." His smile didn't waver. "From one of the other guests, Mademoiselle La Capere."

It took all the self-control he had left not to snatch the letter off the tray. Ardsley turned to look at Gil, and nearly jumped out of his skin as he realized his employer had snuck up behind him. Gil could apparently be as stealthy as he wanted-that or Ardsley was losing his touch.

"For me?" he said.

"If you're Ardsley Wooster." The servant held up the tray. "The lady did request I wait for a reply." Ardsley took the envelope and turned away from both of them, not that it would stop Gil looking over his shoulder if he wanted. The servant simply waited, discretely, and pretended to not be interested.

Melisande had written in French, clearly assuming the letter might be opened and read by someone other than him. As such it contained none of the personal or intimate content he craved, but knew was too risky to send. As he skimmed the familiar handwriting, even the perfectly proper, almost primly formal words were enough simply being from her. "She asks, sir, if I might join her for a horseback ride this morning and would I meet her at the stables at eleven o'clock." Automatically he glanced at his watch, despite knowing there was still plenty of time. "If you need me this morning, sir, I'll of course decline, and as she doesn't mention having her godmother along as chaperone I'm not entire certain it would be-"

Gil snatched the letter away with a speed that would have done even Dolokhov's enhanced reflexes proud, and skimmed it even as he was turning to the waiting servant. "Please inform the mademoiselle that Mr. Wooster will be delighted to take her up on her invitation, and will gladly meet her at the stables at the hour she suggests." The man bowed politely, tray tucked under his arm, and departed, presumably to deliver the message.

"Sir, really, I appreciate-"

"Honestly, Wooster, I realize you're trying to be a proper English gentleman's gentleman, but sometimes you take it much too far." Gil, much to Ardsley's relief, handed the letter back. "Now, do I really need your constant attendance here? Yes or no?"

"Well, I suppose no-"

"And did the lady go to the trouble of sending a lovely invitation?"

"Yes, she did, but-"

"And, your relative social statuses and whatever terms you may have parted on in Paris notwithstanding, do you appear to still be quite in the lady's favor?"

"It's really not that simple, sir-"

"Nonsense. It's perfectly simple: she's interested, you're interested, you have an ideal opportunity to get reacquainted, and I'm not letting you waste it simply out of a pathological English need to stand on ceremony!" It wasn't quite a Spark in full voice, but Ardsley'd found that the Wulfenbachs, father or son, didn't seem to have to resort to that kind of coercion often anyway. "Now, are you going or not?"

"With that sort of permission granted, how could I refuse?" In spite of himself, he wanted to laugh. For the future tyrant of Europa, Gil used his powers in interesting ways.

"Good. I'm glad that's settled." Gil went back to his tea, holding up the cup for a refresher. "And if by some chance anyone questions the appropriateness of a 'mere valet' attending on a countess's goddaughter, you inform them that you are the personally-selected First Assistant to Baron Wulfenbach's son, and _that_ is worth any three of their lordlings."

"Yes, sir." He went to get the teapot, glancing surreptitiously at the note like the lovestruck young minion he was supposed to be (and in fact was.) As the sheet of foolscap caught the light, he noticed an odd sheen to the paper between the words.

Realized someone else would likely read it, indeed. _That's my professional girl._

Slipping the note into his pocket, he refilled Gil's teacup. "If you don't mind, sir, as I am apparently going riding this morning, it would probably be best if I put on more suitable attire."

"Hm? Oh, yes, probably a good idea." Gil gave him a sly, sideways glance. "Perhaps you ought to make sure there aren't too many buttons and layers. You wouldn't want your Melisande to get frustrated and give up. For that matter, have you suggested she try your English fashions? It's probably warm enough here."

"Sir! Really, I-we're just-I'm not planning-" He hated being reduced to babbling, but sometimes Gil managed anyhow. Considering how, compared to home, continental Europeans layered their clothing as if every day were February in Stockholm, they seemed to feel perfectly at ease teasing about very intimate subjects that were really none of their business.

"Please. I'm not blind, and I certainly wasn't blind in Paris." He grinned. "You two could barely keep your hands off each other. I seem to recall that last week I scarcely saw you, as you and your Melisande wanted to be alone."

Was there a touch of envy in his master's voice? "Well, at the time, we hardly knew when we'd see each other again. If ever. She wasn't precisely happy about that."

"Obviously, she's revised her opinion." Gil smirked over his teacup. "Go ahead. I think if I decide I want more toast, I can manage. Or I'll just ask Boris. He could probably make tea and toast at the same time."

Ardsley shuddered, imagining the look on Dolokhov's face if asked to fix Gil breakfast. Worse, how he'd take it out on the valet who'd been skiving off his duties and caused the indignity. "I do hope that won't be necessary, sir." Still, he took the opportunity and retreated.

As he'd suspected when Dolokhov took charge of assigning rooms, his was . . . less than ideal. At least it would have been less than ideal, having to go through the small butler's pantry, down a narrow hall past one of the rooms Dolokhov had given to the security detail, and into a corner room with two rather small windows, one of which did indeed overlook the sea, while the other opened directly into the branches of an umbrella pine. And while the furnishings were still quite nice by most standards (a carved four-poster with dark green hangings, a dark wood wardrobe, a simple wash stand and a small secretary desk) they weren't nearly as luxurious as some of the others in the suite. Elegant it wasn't, but as privacy suited his purposes, he hadn't complained.

Besides, complaining would only have made Dolokhov happy.

He sat down at the desk and opened his toiletries kit, taking out the canister of tooth powder. Spreading the note from Melisande on the desk, he unscrewed the bottom of the canister and dusted the powder concealed in the lower compartment across the paper, and as he did saw the ghostly silver-black letters come into view between the lines of her conventional message. So, besides passwords and secret signals, Lord M_ was also giving her the standard tool kit. On his last visit home, he'd known she'd done the Service some sort of favor, something involving the late Duke of Devonshire, but she'd implied it was relatively simple, though it had necessitated eliminating the Duke. In defence of herself and others, so she'd said. Apparently he ought to ask for a few more details.

_Our suite is two floors below yours, overlooking the garden. _Well, that made any private meetings slightly more difficult. _When I went into the hall this morning I ran into a footman, who seemed anxious I not wander about unattended. They seem very concerned with keeping guests under observation. I've drawn a map, as much as I've figured out, of where our suites are in relation to each other and to places like the casino floor. I marked areas that seem as if they don't want anyone looking in. We can talk more on our ride, if they let us out of their sight. (And I hope they do, love.)_

Below, the invisible ink revealed a quickly-sketched map, and it did appear there would be few chances to casually meet in passing on the way to their rooms (and that was of course for strictly professional purposes.) Clearly she'd had more time to examine the hotel and memorize the layout than he had, given their fashionably-late arrival. There did seem to be an unusual number of marks indicating someone was guarding that area-perhaps not calling themselves a guard, but keeping guests out nonetheless.

Ardsley refolded the letter and placed it in the bottom of his toiletry kit, where no one was likely to be looking. The invisible ink would fade again shortly, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. In case they were snooping he did make sure to leave the top lid of the tooth powder loose and hooked by a thread to the top. He'd know someone was rummaging by the inevitable mess. That done, he went to the wardrobe and tried to think what he'd brought that would be suitable for horseback riding. He hadn't actually packed with the resort's amenities in mind. Or, he thought, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat and noted, yet again, it had far too many fastenings for practicality, and for Melisande.

The Count's stables were, of course, as sumptuously appointed as everyplace else they'd seen so far. There were high windows, covered with gilded metal grate, to allow the fresh breeze off the sea into the stalls, and he could see there was a riding hall at the center of the building with neatly-raked footing and high padded walls to protect the horses and riders both. As Ardsley approached, he saw a rider on a chestnut mare with a bright-white blaze and socks (obviously the Count employed very competent grooms) circling in the hall at a quick, light canter. He realized it was Melisande, and he noted she was riding astride, in rather familiar split skirts. From the nimble way her horse was circling and swapping leads and how still her legs and hands were, the Duchy at least still considered riding the real animal a vital skill for the properly-brought-up.

She saw him standing at the gate and the smile on her face almost made him forget everything other than how good it was to be with her. "Ardsley!" She reined in her horse and trotted her to the gate. "I'm so glad your master let you come." She wore the broad, uncensored smile of a happy young woman who was simply glad to see her beau. Between her teeth she hissed in English, "The groom over there has been watching me the whole time. I told him we won't need an escort but he says, very respectfully of course, he has to see you ride first to be sure of that. Wouldn't want us hurt."

"Naturally they wouldn't." He raised his voice. "So am I. But with the Count's staff, he has very little need for me during the day, as he's not working on any projects while he's here. And I think he's patting himself on the back for his match-making, or making-up enabling, whichever he thinks it is." He managed not to laugh at the thought of how little they needed any help in that department, if Gil only knew it.

Melisande was visibly smothering a laugh, too. "I asked the groom to find you a quiet horse. I know the English don't ride much."

"The Glass City isn't really the ideal environment for horses." How they'd deal with all the waste, never mind where on earth they'd get hay and grain to feed them, were questions beyond even her Majesty's cleverest Spark advisors. "I did learn to ride, though. Apparently not as well as you."

"Everyone in the Duchy rides," and she appeared to catch herself, "well, everyone with land. I used to ride with Cousin Alexei when we were children. He was always trying to come up with ways to improve the experience . . . I'll take a real pony over a mechanical one any day."

Remembering some of the fat, furry, and he half-suspected fire-breathing beasts of the northern Scottish islands, he wasn't necessarily sure he'd agree. "There are worse methods of transportation." He wondered if there was some way to arrange for James to learn, when he was older–knowing Melisande, she'd probably adore those ponies . . . .

"Sir," and the groom used the same soft, respectful tones as the other staff, "at the Mademoiselle's suggestion I took the liberty of saddling this horse for you." He was holding the reins of a tall, rangy bay with a roached mane (less to grab, Ardsley thought uneasily. ) "He's quite gentle, and safe for anyone to ride."

"Thank you." He took the reins, and thought the horse gave him a very skeptical look. "I'm sure we'll be fine."

"The mounting block is over there, sir," and the groom pointed discretely to a small step.

Ardsley felt a somewhat-unreasonable flush of embarrassment. "I can manage, thank you." He probably made a greater fuss than necessary over adjusting the irons and double-checking girth (though partially that was also good sense-never trust any mode of transportation to strangers) before, with only a modicum of scrambling, swinging up into the saddle. After a moment's slightly embarrassing fumbling, he had the reins organized and some sense of control.

Melisande, who had either out of pity or some sense of wifely duty refrained from laughing, reined her mare in beside him. "Ready, dearest?"

"I think so." The horse snorted, and he automatically grabbed for mane that wasn't there. "I think maybe we should keep to a steady walk."

"Just a leisurely stroll." Melisande turned her most appealing smile on the groom. "Thank you. We'll return in an hour or so."

"If you wish, Mademoiselle, I would be happy to ride along as a guide." The groom made it sound like a simple favor, common courtesy to a guest.

She didn't bat an eyelash. "Really, it's an island. I doubt we'll be lost, and we'll stay on the well-marked paths. I'm sure we'll be fine."

"If you wish, Mademoiselle. Please, around the ring so I can be certain Monsieur will not require further assistance."

Ardsley gave the bay a nudge with his heels. The horse flicked an ear back at him and actually slouched, cocking one back foot to rest it. Ardsley grimaced and tapped a bit harder. The horse seemed disinclined to acknowledge his presence. "Perhaps this one was a bit too docile?"

Wifely duty or no, Melisande was clearly struggling not to laugh. "Keep a tight leg, love. And be ready to let him go forward."

"What are you going to–" He didn't have time to finish the question as Melisande leaned over and gave his horse a firm slap on the rump. His mount jumped and plunged forward, and he only just kept his seat as it broke into a short-strided jolting trot. He could hear Melisande laughing and had to admit he probably didn't look as competent as the groom expected from someone who didn't need a chaperone to hold them on the horse. Summoning up everything he could remember, he sat deep, pushing his heels down, and took up the reins tighter. The horse snorted, but came back to a walk and kept moving.

Melisande, without any visible urging, brought her mare alongside. "See? You just need to show him who's in charge." The gelding tossed its head and pinned its ears at her horse, who gave him the evil eye and a flick of her own ears in return. The bay sighed audibly and dropped its head. "There, just like that."

"Of course she's in charge," Ardsley said, "she's a mare."

"Well, lucky for him he's a gelding, then, he doesn't have to worry about impressing her." She smiled over her shoulder, and her smile had a teasing little edge that told him the horse might not have to worry, but that he might think about impressing the mare's rider. He knew that was probably not the wisest idea, but he did wonder if perhaps a little trotting, maybe a little jump over any convenient downed log, might not be entirely out of the question.

Melisande pointed her mare for the open gate, and headed out at a brisk trot. The rhythm of posting at the jarring gait was coming back to him, and he gave the horse a firmer tap with his heels to keep up. The groom looked as if he wanted to protest, but they were out of the riding hall and headed down the drive before they could be saddled with yet another minder.

It went without saying they would put distance between themselves and the buildings before speaking too freely. Still, the stables weren't quite out of sight before Ardsley asked the one question he hadn't had time for last evening. "How's James?"

Her smile answered before she could speak. "Growing like a weed. He looks more and more like you every day, and that's not just a mother's opinion. He's already working on crawling, and I read to him in English, German and Russian." Her smile crumpled just a bit. "Well, I'm sure Aunt Delilah is mostly reading to him in English. Probably textbooks about engines and stories about Miss Thorpe, though she's rather picky about those."

Ardsley chuckled. "Have you met Jack Tarwell, a.k.a. Jolly Jack Tar, yet? Aunt Delilah's rather fond of him–so is Miss Thorpe, come to that–and he doesn't always come off quite realistically. Though now that I've read the Heterodyne books and actually met the Baron, I think Jack ought to count his blessings. It could be much, much worse."

"But the Baron allows them to be published," and Melisande sounded sincerely puzzled. "If he doesn't like them, I would think . . . ."

"That he'd be burning the cities where they're published to the ground as a lesson?" Ardsley shook his head. "They're harmless, and if it means people underestimate him, so much the better as far as he's concerned. Really, I'm not nearly as surprised as I used to be by how reasonable Gil can be, for a Spark, anyway. I suppose it stands to reason–only someone who wasn't as completely out of control as the rest of them could manage to put down all the rogue Sparks in Europa. No one expects an invader to deal with your flame-generating half-sentient moat full of gelatin by just having the Mecha Mole Brigade tunnel under it."

"I suppose that's what really makes him dangerous. And less likely to blow himself up by accident, too." Melisande sounded halfway wistful. "So why is he taking such an indirect route with Count Vercordi?"

"Partially to test Gil." That was the simple part. There was little doubt the Baron was prepping Gil to someday take over what he'd built, and dealing with uppity nobles was a major part of that. "But I think they don't know entirely what's going on here. The invitations certainly make it look like there's something someone acting against the Baron would want–but since the Count isn't a Spark and isn't known to hire them, what?"

Melisande's expression darkened. "There are certainly enough places they don't want visitors wandering . . . I wondered almost if it was a trap for us, those of us invited. Present all the non-Sparks who show an interest in bettering themselves as a trapped gift for the Baron."

"If that's his plan he's going to be badly disappointed." Ardsley eased his horse back to a walk, and Melisande matched him. "No one here is making any sort of trouble that the Baron would even notice. Abducting you all and presenting it as a favor would only annoy him. No, he undoubtedly has something else in mind."

"Bankrupting us all?"

"If you can't be the most powerful despot in Europa, might as well be the richest?" It had a certain logic to it. "Except he has to realize that if he doesn't have this interesting thing he's promised everyone, they aren't going to take it well. So he must have something, at least as a distraction."

"And he definitely doesn't want the surprise spoiled." They were riding towards the north side of the island, where the village was supposed to be. "But I think you're right, he's going to be unpleasantly surprised if he causes some of these guests serious disappointment. I don't think you and I are the only ones here who aren't what we're pretending to be."

"So far, besides your aunt and your lovely self, I am reasonably certain Lady Oyone is actually an intelligence agent for the Emperor. Besides the obvious alias, listening to her speak she's very good at asking clever questions without sounding clever. She got more out of Gil than I would have expected, unless he was letting it on purpose."

"I would guess those hair sticks of hers are tipped with something more serious than lacquer," Melisande agreed, "at least, that's what I would do. Do you think I'd look nice with hair sticks?"

"I prefer your hair down myself." Down, in dark, rich waves, spread out on a pillow or hanging down her bare back . . . . Ardsley realized she was smiling a very knowing smile at him.

It vanished quickly, though. "I was seated near Sir William Franklin for dinner. Interesting conversationalist, but obviously a con artist. An American, honestly." She shook her head. "If you want strange, now, Signore e Signora Valentine."

"Strange?"

"For a start, if he's Italian I'll eat my hat." And she was wearing a rather flattering veiled tricorn riding hat, too. "She's definitely not-if anything my guess is she's Russian. Second, I have the odd feeling they're not here just to play cards and buy whatever the Count's selling. Valentine avoided the dinner last night and from the way his lady neatly avoided straight answers my guess is he was poking around places he shouldn't be. I can't think of any of the city-states who have the resources to run agents these days."

"Not one of your uncle's?"

"Not unless he's not telling Baba Anya about them. Or she's lying to me that she doesn't know them." She turned away a bit, but he still saw the way her smile crumpled. "I'm still not used to having to doubt everything she tells me."

Ardsley felt a sharp stab of guilt, not unlike the night before. Still, considering the circumstances . . . "Do you trust her?"

She looked up sharply, and the automatic denial died unspoken. "Entirely? No. She's better than I am and always has been. But Lord M_ trusted her enough to go along with this scheme, and don't forget he did let me leave."

"He has James as a hostage." Ardsley surprised himself with his sharp tone. "He knows you'll come back if you have a choice. I'm just not certain he was necessarily weighing the risks quite correctly."

"If you mean the situation, well, that's your 'master's' fault for crashing the party," Melisande teased. "If you mean thinking the cooperative mission was a setup . . . well, I'm as guilty as he is. But then I do need something to keep myself occupied. My husband, after all, is constantly away on foreign office business."

"If it makes you feel any better, I have it on good authority your husband would very much like to be at home, coming up with ways to keep your utterly occupied without ever leaving the house." He was rewarded with the sort of look-lowered gaze, smiling up through her lashes-that he knew meant she'd been thinking along exactly the same lines, and he wondered how isolated these woods really were. "Where are we going right now, exactly?"

Melisande looked down the trail they were following as if gauging distance. "The driver who brought us from the docks seemed very determined to make the village sound terribly boring."

"So naturally you planned to have a look at the first opportunity." Exactly what he, or any good agent, would have done.

"Naturally. If I remember the airship approach, we should go this way." The trail that meandered off to the north looked narrower and less-traveled than the main path, which was veering southeast. Melisande, of course, was already turning her mare for the darker path.

Ardsley gave his own mount another nudge with his heels, and the bay grudgingly picked up his pace. As he drew alongside, he leaned towards Melisande and asked in a much lower tone, "You're armed?"

"Just the small pistol, and knives in both boots." Her lips barely moved. "I didn't want to overdo things. You?"

"My drop piece and knife. It's hard to hide weapons on the Castle so I don't have many."

"There's always improvisation," she replied, "and I do know you're good with your hands."

_Focus, Ardsley._ "Hopefully we're not going to need any of them. Maybe it's just a village, and the Count is just attempting to bilk rich visitors without Sparkish means of taking revenge out of their money, and we can just enjoy an unexpected vacation." He saw the look she was giving him. "Well, it's possible."

"Keep your gun hand free, just in case." Melisande kept riding down the trail towards the village, and Ardsley once again found himself prodding his mount to keep up.

As they reached the first sharp curve in the trail, that took them out of sight of the main path, he heard a faint snap, like a twig cracking, and he turned. There was relatively little underbrush here for someone to hide in, but he could have sworn he saw a shadow vanishing at the corner of his vision. But when he tried to spot the source of the movement, all he saw were trees and a few shorter scrub pines. Melisande had turned in her saddle to look as well, and he saw the same thought he had echoed in her eyes–no matter where they were on this island, they could never assume they were completely alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"I was hoping to spend more time with you after last night," Ardsley murmured, "but this was not exactly what I had in mind."

Melisande pressed herself flatter against the sun-warmed rock. "I'm finding it quite refreshing to have company for surveillance, myself." And the cliff was far more comfortable, rocks aside, than tailing someone through Paris, or her practice surveillance in Petersburg. In January. She'd been told the necessary dress for cold weather gave operatives-in-training an assist, as everyone looked alike bundled in fur stoles and heavy hats, but she suspected her uncle simply wanted to see who would crack under the pressure first. Here the sun was warm, the fresh breeze off the sea was refreshing, and the terrain meant they had a perfect vantage point of the village and its small harbor while remaining relatively out of sight, or at least high enough no one was likely to look up that far. "If anyone asks, we can always say we were having a picnic."

"Without food?" Ardsley had a point. "Might be a less-than-convincing argument."

"Well, what else could two young people be doing on an isolated cliff overlooking the sea, all alone?"

"I have some ideas." She felt his finger tracing a slow pattern on the palm of her hand and looked away from the village long enough to smile at him. Ardsley smiled back, then turned his attention to the village below. "It doesn't look like there's anyone around to see us."

"I noticed." The village was, while not quite hovels, the antithesis of the lavish compound where the Count's guests were staying. The small whitewashed adobe houses were packed close together, and the terra cotta tiles on the roofs were neat, but plain. From their vantage point, Melisande could see a small square at the center of town with a large but functional, rather than ornate, fountain. There were no shops, though it was always possible they had a market day once a week. In such a small town, where presumably most residents were employed by the Count, there were unlikely to be many needs left unmet or a huge population to keep occupied. "If anything, it seems a bit too quiet. No children? No elderly?"

"No one coming home for a family meal at noon? In this climate I'd think people would eat outside." Ardsley was holding a small telescope that when collapsed looked discretely like a pen. "I don't see so much as a drape blowing in the wind. And hardly a sail in the harbor or on the sea–there's a fishing boat, it looks to be, but it's far from shore."

"I wish I had one of those." It was a handy little gadget, though not inconspicuous once in use.

"Put in a requisition when you get back," Ardsley said, this time not taking his eye away from the viewing end.

"You're still annoyed about that license to kill thing, aren't you?" She couldn't entirely blame him.

"Hmph." But she heard a faint note of laughter.

Melisande shook her head with mock sadness and as she turned her gaze from the village, she saw a cloud of dust rising from the coast road, coming southeast from the direction of the Count's estate. She touched Ardsley's shoulder and pointed, and he turned his telescope towards the incoming traffic as they both pressed themselves lower to the warm stones.

"Looks like a dray–there's two in the Count's livery on the seat." As Ardsley spoke, he offered the telescope. Melisande smiled at the courtesy, though he was still peering down at the road.

When she put the device to her eye and adjusted the focus, she had a clear view of the approaching cart. Empty, drawn by two heavy horses, and sitting on the driver's box were a man in a plainer version of the green and gold livery, and . . . "Well, if it isn't your friend, Miss Muliera."

"No friend of mine," Ardsley muttered. "I wonder why the Count's right-hand woman is all the way down here on a supply run?"

"Important supplies, one presumes." Melisande watched as the dray stopped in the square and Velocia stepped down from the driver's box. The red-painted door of one house opened as she approached–obviously whoever was within had been watching for their arrival. A man, the first 'native' of the island she'd seen who wasn't dressed in green and gold, stepped into the square. He was carrying a small box, certainly not big enough to warrant the dray's presence, which he handed to Velocia. She opened the box, and Melisande squinted, but the miniature telescope wasn't strong enough to see any more detail. The major domo then turned and pointed to the dray and then towards the shore, and the man gave a very Mediterranian shrug and beckoned to someone inside the house. A moment later, two more men appeared and crossed the square towards the docks, passing behind one of the other buildings and briefly out of her line of sight.

"Interesting." Ardsely was squinting down at the action, shielding his eyes from the sun. "Definitely looks like they're picking something up. Or someone."

"Not more guests." The men looked like sturdy, hands-on labor types, which both fit with the Count's alleged aversion to using clanks and Sparkish inventions for working, but somehow Melisande didn't think they were just hauling in the day's catch.

"Something important enough to have Miss Muliera picking it up," Ardsley agreed, holding out his hand for the telescope. Melisande wrinkled her nose at him, but it was his, after all, and she handed it back. As he watched she looked out over the village to the sea beyond. The smaller island that housed the monastery was clearly visible in the distance, though too far off for her to see any details.

A glint of light reflecting on the water caught her eye, and she squinted, trying to spot the source. A boat was bobbing midway between the two islands. Going by the set of the sails and the netting and rigs she could barely make out, it was a fishing boat, though the figures moving about on the deck all seemed to be wearing dark robes. The monks from the far island? Melisande supposed they needed to eat and trade like anyone, but it seemed an odd time of day to be out on the water. The flicker of light, too seemed without a source, until she saw it again–something small and glass, in the hands of one of the robed figures. A spyglass, she realized, pointed at the Count's island. Despite the distance, she pressed herself flatter to the rock, and touched Ardsley's arm.

He glanced at her, and she pointed out to sea. "We're not the only ones taking an interest."

Ardsley turned his spyglass from the square to the little boat. "Think that's what they're here to meet?"

"They're too far out to be bringing something to shore," Melisande said. "And they appear to be watching the shore just as intently as we are."

"Allegedly, they're a quiet cloistered order," Ardsley said, "small enough Boris hasn't even worried that they're out to abduct or assassinate the Baron's son and if he's not worried about someone you know they're inconsequential. Still . . . maybe they're worried about the Count expanding his operations."

"Or that they're bringing something dangerous next door." Without the spyglass, she couldn't see the activity in the town square in detail, but the men from the house were hauling a large crate on a sledge to the dray. Melisande fought the urge to grab the spyglass back from Ardsley and take a closer look. "Is there anything on the crate?"

Ardsley, who might not live with his wife all the time but still knew a tone of voice when he heard it, said, "Take a look," and handed her the spyglass.

Melisande gave him a genuinely sweet smile and looked again. "No lettering I can see, except 'fragile', 'this end up . . .' At least they've got that bit right loading it. All in Italian, so it didn't come very far to get here."

"Who just came out of the house?"Ardsley sounded as if he was trying, very hard, to not ask for the spyglass back again.

Melisande squinted. The figure who'd emerged from the house was slight and stoop-shouldered, wrapped in black shawls and moving with the slow, bent gait of the very old. The face surrounded by the shawl looked wizened, too, though she couldn't see any hair to tell if it was white. The old woman had a smaller box, without any markings, that she carried over to Velocia. The majordomo took it and cracked the lid open. Not, unfortunately, enough for Melisande to see inside, but whatever it was made the redhead nod approvingly. The old woman did not appear to change expression but as she turned away, she looked up towards the rocky cliffs and the wizened face squinted just a bit more.

Then she pointed.

Melisande dropped flat to the rock and to Ardsley's credit he ducked at the same instant, before he asked, "They see us?"

Melisande didn't dare raise the spyglass again–foolish; if the light reflecting on the 'fishing boat' caught her eye, of course the same thing might happen to them, assuming Q branch hadn't thought to put a nonreflective lens on this version. She'd have to make a note of that when she returned to the Glass City. "They saw something." When she looked back up she saw that, while the old woman had apparently lost interest, Velocia was now staring up at the overlook.

"Bloody hell, she's spotted us." Ardsley ducked again. "I hope she doesn't have binoculars."

Melisande grimaced. In the square below Velocia had turned and gotten the attention of the men loading the dray. If they decided to come looking, she and Ardsley were in a sticky situation–stay and confront them and look suspicious, or run and look more so. Strictly speaking they were doing nothing wrong, as guests were allegedly welcome anywhere on the island. Practically, there was no reason for them to be lying on an isolated cliff over the sea, overlooking the village, when they were supposed to be out for a midday ride.

No reason–but one.

"Are they looking?" She rolled over so she was sitting up, leaning back on her elbows with her back to the cliff and the village below.

Ardsley blinked and turned to her. "Ah–yes, they're looking, and Miss Muliera is pointing and . . . oh dear, that looks like a spyglass she's getting."

"Good." She grabbed Ardsley's lapels and pulled him into a tight embrace. To his credit, he relaxed from his surprise almost immediately and set about making the performance highly convincing. "Now," she murmured, leaning back and essentially inviting him to lie over her, "you want to do what to me?"

"Not that I object," Ardsley said, and given how readily he was participating in the act she believed him, "but what on Earth are you doing?"

"Look up," she said, tightening her arms around his back in a way that pointed him towards the cliff again, "and while you're ravishing me, keep an eye on them, yes?"

"Ah, I see." He unpinned her hat and tossed it aside, and she made a mental note to brush it off later before putting it back on. "Well," he said, while nuzzling the exquisitely-sensitive spot at the base of her throat, "she's definitely looking. Not sure if she's angry or embarrassed."

"Hm." Melisande gave him a gentle push and he understood, rolling over onto his back and pulling her with him. She looked down, and saw the driver and the men who'd been loading the dray looking up towards them with what even from here she could tell were leering grins. Velocia had clearly just lowered the telescope and looked like she was anything but amused. "I think we've got their attention."

"You've certainly got mine." His hands were occupied, expertly working the buttons of her split riding skirts. Clearly, Ardsley was going to make the most of their cover. "They have their cargo loaded?"

"Looks like." The larger crate was secured on the dray, and Velocia had placed the smaller box on her seat. The men, however, seemed more interested in the show on the cliffs than in finishing their task. She could almost see the woman's face turning red to match her hair at the disorder, and then Ardsley, with a deft sort of move that spoke more of martial arts than marital, had her on the ground again and she lost the view. "I suspect they'll be taking whatever it is to an entrance the guests can't see."

"Post-haste, from the looks of things. She's got them moving out." Ardsley seemed somewhat less than interested at this point. "I expect the Count will hear about this, even if we don't."

"Yes, especially if we're too long getting back." Not that she wanted to leave. Not that this wasn't far more an escape she'd expected.

"Hm." Ardsley clearly did not think rushing back was their highest priority. "Still, just in case anyone is still watching, we probably ought to give the charade a little more time. For veracity's sake."

"Of course." Melisande smiled, toying with the buttons of his riding breeches, and decided not to worry if anyone was watching them or not.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimers, explanations, etc. back in Chapter One.

The atmosphere in the casino that evening had a tense edge to it. While everyone was, once again, at the tables, there seemed a disinterest in the games. Even the staff did not provide that cheerful, quietly encouraging feel, the little smile or tilt of the head that promised the next hand, the next spin, the next roll of the dice would be the good one. Most of the guests played, but with a distracted air. Ardsley noted the Greek who'd been eyeing Melisande the previous evening didn't seem to notice much of anything now, even that he'd just lost more on a single turn of the cards than Ardsley made in a year–even counting his Wulfenbach pay and his real pay from the agency. Signore Valentine had been doing slightly better at the baccarat table, but from the way he seemed more interested in watching his lady toy with her fan than in paying attention to his hand, he was disinterested as everyone else in the games.

Boris Dolokhov, on the other hand, appeared to not be interested in anything. Both sets of arms were folded tightly across his chest, and he was standing beside Gil with a tight-jawed grimace. Ardsley, standing at Gil's other shoulder, tried not to draw the construct's attention, as he'd been in a foul mood all day and did not appear to be improving. When he'd returned to the suite that afternoon, admittedly in the kind of good mood that could irritate even friends, only Gil's intervention had kept him from spending the rest of the day doing laundry for the entire Wulfenbach delegation. Gil, for his part, mostly wanted details. When Ardsley was loathe to supply them, he'd cheerfully made his own surmises, wildly creative but just close enough to the truth that Ardsley wasn't sure he'd completely stopped turning red by dinner.

His state of mind wasn't improved by the sight of Melisande entering, trailing in her godmother's wake. Instead of black velvet tonight it was burgundy taffeta, with a cascade of ruffles bustled and drawing the eye to parts of her anatomy that, while he enjoyed thinking of them, did very little to help his concentration. Distracting himself by wondering which agency's expense account paid for the dresses didn't keep his mind occupied long. Though they didn't strictly match, she had the black opera gloves with his aunt's creative embellishments on again. He noticed that while they weren't quite suited to the dress, they did at least seem to fit with the locket on its black velvet choker. The glass locket rested in that little nook between her collar bones that he'd devoted a bit of attention to earlier, and looking _there_ naturally drew his eye to the ribbon-trimmed low neckline of the dress, and the lovely way she filled out the taffeta gown.

A quiet snort beside him forced his attention back to his employer. "Sir?"

"Might want to mind where you're looking, if you're going to insist on being a proper gentleman and not a lovesick twit," Gil said sotto voce.

"Ah–sorry, sir." Ardsley wished he didn't color quite so easily. "I was just–"

"Ogling the young lady like she was a crumpet on a tea-table and you were feeling peckish?" It was a miracle Boris could talk at all, twisting his lip that much. "Once again, Master Gilgamesh," and while Ardsley said 'master' as a title of respect, Boris clearly meant it in the 'son of the head of the house' sense, "I have to point out how inappropriate it is to allow a valet to ignore his duties and traipse around after lady guests."

Ardsley had a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but fortunately Gil cut him off. "The lady doesn't object, and I'm perfectly capable of putting on my own boots. Besides, looks like he's not the one doing the following."

At the gaming tables, the Countess had stopped once again by the baccarat players, while Melisande was making her way directly to them. Ardsley felt a perverse satisfaction as she deflected the Greek tycoon's attempt to rise and greet her with a vague polite smile as she passed. Instead, she glided straight to where they were standing, giving Gil a polite sort of almost-curtsey, and nodding to Ardsley before, to his surprise, turning to their sullen third.

"I wish to apologize, Herr Dolokhov," she said, with, if anything, a deeper bow than she'd given Gil. "I was inexcusably rude last night. Can you forgive me, sir?"

Boris appeared as taken aback as Ardsley felt, but Melisande had backed him quite neatly into an etiquette corner. He really only had one out, and graciously for him, he took it. "There's nothing to forgive, Mademoiselle. I was far from polite myself, and let my . . . personal biases color my behavior."

"Thank you, Herr Dolokhov." She turned that perfectly-charming smile on Gil. "If you don't need him for the evening, Herr Wulfenbach, may I steal your valet? Unescorted and unmarried ladies sometimes have difficulty avoiding . . . unwanted attention."

"I can't imagine needing Wooster here tonight," Gil said. "Contrary to popular belief I'm capable of tying my own shoes."

"Or perhaps of building a clank to tie them for you?" Melisande had a knack for teasing Sparks, Ardsley thought. There was always a fine line there, though it wasn't as dangerous to toe it where Gil was concerned as with some lesser Sparks. The greater the talent, the less need to take offense?

"If something interesting doesn't happen soon, I may decide to make something out of the roulette tables and the carving knives from dinner." Gil had just enough of a glint in his eye when he said that for Ardsley to be slightly concerned.

"I'm not sure interesting is the word I'd have chosen," Melisande said, ever tactful, "but I certainly would like to know why we're here." She stepped beside Ardsley, forcing all of them to turn away from watching the games, or turn their backs on a lady, and slipped her arm through his. "I am enjoying the company, of course, but we at least were lead to believe there was a reason for all this."

Ardsley gave himself exactly fifteen seconds to savor her arm through his, the way the silk taffeta of her skirt brushed against him, and then forced himself to focus on the business at hand. "In my experience, interesting and exciting are rarely good descriptions to use for any successful holiday."

"Oh, Ardsley." Melisande tapped him playfully on the arm with her fan. "Sometimes you can be so British it's painful."

"I'm not sure whether that's an insult or a compliment." If only they weren't in company, or if it didn't matter if they were, he could respond to that in the way it deserved. Someday, perhaps . . . . "In any case, perhaps whatever the Count has in mind won't be nearly as eventful as everyone expects."

They should be so lucky.

Another ring of the gong that announced dinner drew everyone's attention to the far staircase, just as it had the night before. Once again, Count Vercordi was at the top of the steps, surveying the crowd. Velocia Muliera was beside him, once again in the green and gold livery with the impressive decolletage, watching from over her master's shoulder with a decidedly less gregarious expression. Ardsley could feel Melisande tense with dislike and he smothered a grin before she saw it and took her ire out on him.

The Count began speaking, "Ladies, gentlemen, guests all." His voice somehow carried, despite sounding mellow and even. A device? Or natural theatrical gifts? "Once again, I welcome you to my home. I hope you have all been enjoying the hospitality, and the amenities of my island?" Was it Ardsley's imagination, or did the Count's gaze linger on him and Melisande for a moment as he said that? "But of course, that isn't why you all came to visit me, is it?" The crowd laughed, but there was a nervous tinge to it. "No, you are waiting to hear what the . . . special prize I am offering is."

You could have heard a pin drop across the entire casino floor. Ardsley realized even he was holding his breath, and he could feel how still Melisande had gone, could see out of the corner of his eye that Gil was, in spite of himself, intrigued.

The Count gestured to Velocia, who gestured to someone at the opposite end of the room. The massive main doors at the top of the opposite stairs swung open with a clang. A group of the liveried servants (though something about their bearing made Ardsley think "soldier" instead) began a careful descent of the steps, two bearing a large box on a sort of litter, draped over with cloth-of-gold so that beyond size (a bit bigger than a coal scuttle) the precise nature of the object remained a mystery. Two more of the servants came behind, carrying a taller, bulkier item, this one ignominiously wrapped in burlap. Those not seated at the tables moved back, even when they weren't in the way. Ardsley strained to get some better hint of what was under the cloths, and he could feel Melisande on her toes beside him, doing the same, but the coverings were thick and heavy and the servants moved too quickly.

While everyone's attention had been on the servants and their concealed burdens, the Count had descended the stairs and was now standing on the casino floor. Ardsley could see why their host seemed to prefer using the stairs for announcements. The Count was not a tall man and the staircase added grandeur, while here it was evident even Velocia had several centimeters on him. The short stature did not in any way diminish his sense of authority. With an imperious gesture, he directed the first litter to his left and the second burlap-wrapped one directly in front of him. Stepping back, he stood beside the first litter while Velocia directed the unwrapping of the first one, the two soldiers winding the burlap around their arms, circling the thing like a bizarre Maypole until the object beneath was revealed.

It was a battle clank.

Not a large one, and that was probably all that kept the crowd reaction down to excited murmurs and a few who'd been in their chairs suddenly being on their feet. Ardsley saw Boris lean forward and Gil's hand come up, a gesture-_hold._ Melisande was holding her breath beside him, and he noticed she was resting her left hand on her right wrist, subtly near one of the little pearls on the glove. He loosened his grip on her arm, hoping that whatever his aunt had built into those gloves wasn't likely to leave any powder burns.

But despite the weapons bolted to the clank's polished-brass limbs (a gun with five barrels that probably rotated, and on the other wrist a heavy clamp that, despite being blunt rather than sharp, looked ominously practical) the clank seemed less than impressive. The thing had a somewhat basic head, without any obvious weaponry, but of course that never meant much. On Sparkish weaponry, the most innocuous bolt could turn out to be a plasma grenade or a summoning siren for a herd of rabid mimmoths. But this looked like a fairly standard war clank, except that it appeared they'd nailed it to the board on which it was carried.

"Hm." Gil's slightly-interested murmur carried over the general consternation of the room. Ardsley risked a glance at his 'master,' who was studying the clank with an air of academic detachment.

Boris, on the other hand, was on full alert. "Master Gilgamesh, I must insist-"

"Hold, Boris." Gil sounded far more pensive than alarmed. "That appears to be one of the Duke of Schleissen-Guildenstern's old Mark II infantry clanks. They were obsolete when the Heterodyne Boys were in diapers. What's he trying to prove with one of those?"

"I'm not necessarily sure how up-to-date a clank is matters at this range, provided it's functional," Wooster said. He saw Melisande nod, but her gaze was fixed on the clank and she didn't look up at him.

"For once, I believe your valet has a point," Boris said. "We should retreat and summon the guards-"

"I said hold." Gil turned an annoyed look at both of them, then softened just a bit. "Though you might want to consider retreating to a more distant vantage point, Mademoiselle."

"Thank you," Melisande said, tightening her grip and pressing close to Ardsley's side, "but at the moment I feel safer here." Ardsley smiled, but he couldn't help thinking that perhaps Gil was on to something. Even Dolokhov looked as if he thought she ought to reconsider that opinion. "Besides," she added, "what if that thing tracks by motion?"

Ardsley had a brief mental image of Vanya's chimera clanks beneath Paris, with their motion-triggered targeting, and shuddered. "Good point."

Count Vercordi, for his part, looked sanguine. The beatific smile had not wavered a jot a he took in the reactions from his guests, who mostly appeared to be deciding if they were now more along the lines of 'prisoners.' Or 'intended victims.' "Please, my friends, do not be alarmed. I assure you, this . . . device is merely for demonstration purposes. You are in no danger."

"If I had a gold sovereign for every time I've heard that, I could buy an island and retire," Ardsley muttered, low enough he hoped only Melisande could hear. From the tiniest twitch of her shoulders that meant she was hiding a laugh, she had.

The Count, meanwhile, stepped back and gestured for two of the servants who'd accompanied it in to step forward. They did, taking out short swords that looked as if they would rather the Count had volunteered himself. "As you can see," the Count continued, his voice carrying with an actor's skill at projection, "the device is still functional." Indeed, the gun arm was swinging, the clank's torso turning a bit slower than it should have, either from age or being hampered by its legs being bolted in place. "I believe, though I am not familiar with how these mechanical . . . wonders operate, this one is meant as a soldier. To defend its master, as it were." He nodded to the two servants, who glanced reluctantly at each other, and started forward, not at the clank, but at the Count himself.

The clank might have been rusty, but it still managed to bring its gun to bear and fire. One of the servants managed to dodge, flinging himself flat, but the other jerked with the impact of the bullet and staggered, fell. There were, of course, screams from the onlookers, but surprisingly few-none of these people had maintained their positions in a world ruled by Sparks by being easily flustered–but Ardsley found himself instinctively pushing Melisande behind him. To his surprise, he had help, not from Gil, but Boris. Chivalry apparently overrode even personal distaste for a lady's choice in company. Even more surprising was that Melisande didn't object to either of their automatic reactions.

Velocia waved in two other servants, who unceremoniously hefted the dead man by his arms. The Count, though, raised a hand.

"Wait. I do not wish my guests to think this is a mere stage trick. Perhaps, some of you might wish to examine this machine, and its unfortunate assailant, to assure themselves this was no sleight of hand?"

"Sir, I truly don't think it would be wise–" But before Boris could even finish the sentence or Ardsley turn his head, Gil was off, joined by Prince Gosego, Lady Oyone, Sir William, and the Roman.

"Did you really think that was going to work?" Ardsley didn't bother waiting for an answer. Boris knew as well as he did keeping a Spark from investigating something was probably the second-most-pointless endeavor in the world. "Melisande, please, stay here." He expected an objection, but there must have been something in his tone that told her he wasn't speaking as an agent right now, but as a very worried husband with no desire to see his wife shot. Again. She stepped back a bit farther, but he noticed her hand stayed on the wrist of that glove. Poison needle darts? Exploding pearls? With his aunt's designs, one never knew . . . .

Gil was studying the clank's weapon when Ardsley reached him. "Definitely a Mark II. You can tell by the connectors. Old and outdated, terribly inefficient design," and he was clearly struggling to keep the Sparkish impulses under control, "but they managed to get it working." He poked at one of the barrels, and Ardsley caught the acrid scent of gunpowder, mixed with a faint, almost floral tinge. Perhaps someone was wearing cologne, as he didn't recall any weapons that used flowers as part of their charges.

"Quite effectively, too." The speaker, with his strange flat accent, was Sir William, who was examining the dead servant. The Roman, Valentine, was on the corpse's other side, looking but not touching. "He certainly appears to be dead." The 'American' straightened up and looked at the Count. "I'm sorry to say, there's nothing novel about a clank that kills people. We've all seen that before."

"Certainly nothing worthy of the secrecy," Lady Oyone added. Gil, meanwhile, was poking at the clank's neck, clearly longing for a full tool kit and time to examine the thing more closely.

The Count appeared unfazed. "You are satisfied, gentlemen, madame, that the clank is functional and the man is dead?"

"Satisfied?" Gosego raised an eyebrow. "Let us say, I believe it to be the case."

"As functional as anything this archaic can be," Gil muttered. "I don't see how anyone can tolerate such ineffective systems–"

"Sir, with all due respect, I don't believe the Count is really looking for a detailed analysis of the clank's functions." Ardsley used the careful, almost supplicating tone he normally reserved for when Gil was in the madness place.

From the look Gil gave him, he wasn't far from it, either, but he seemed to realize now was not the moment. "No, probably not." He stepped back, turning to the Count. "You've demonstrated you can kill your retainers almost as well as a very minor Spark. We're all supposed to be impressed with this 'marvel'?"

That was not the way Ardsley would have put it to someone who had just watched impassively as his own man was shot down, but the Count only smiled more narrowly. "This, Herr Wulfenbach?" The smile thinned even further. "This is merely part of the demonstration. If you would all please, once again, step back to a safe distance, we'll continue."

Ardsley was afraid for a moment that he'd have to try dragging Gil. He'd done it before, as Sparks did not always realize that sometimes an experiment was explosively beyond saving, but it wouldn't look well in front of the other guests. Fortunately, his 'master' decided not to make an issue of it. That, or the clank was just too old to be overpoweringly interesting, and they both withdrew to where Boris and Melisande were waiting. Ardsley wasn't sure which of them looked more displeased-maybe it was something in the regional temperament. He decided that Melisande would not appreciate his inquiring, and kept quiet.

The Count, meanwhile, had turned to Velocia and the object covered by the gold cloth. "Miss Muliera, if you please."

She uncovered not a box, but a display case, wood and glass, with a small velvet pedestal. The object on it looked far too unassuming for its presentation, which in Ardlsey's experience meant they probably ought to move a safe distance away. It was a small brass cuff, and mounted on its top was a series of switches and what appeared for all the world to be some sort of cloudy crystal. There didn't appear to be any external power source Ardsley could spot, and it seemed too small to have anything concealed within it.

Gil, by his tone, was confused, too. "If that's supposed to be impressive somehow . . . it doesn't even look like a lab-grown crystal, just a piece of rock."

Melisande was watching from half behind Ardsley's back, a position he was determined to keep her in until he was absolutely certain they weren't in immediate mortal danger. At this point that was looking to be 'until whenever they left the island', but a few inconveniences aside he could work with that. "I suppose it's . . . visually appealing," she said. "If a bit gauche."

Velocia had removed the cuff from its case and placed it on her wrist. She looked to the Count, who gestured for her to stand beside the surviving armed servant. "Now, my friends," the Count said, raising his voice to that actor's register again, "this creation is set to defend its master, me, against assaults. You saw what happened with the first attempt. Now, observe the second."

He nodded, and the remaining servant, looking as if he were seriously reconsidering all potential career options and wishing he'd gone for, say, sewer-digger in a reclaimed Wastelands town instead, raised his sword. Velocia, a knife in one hand, trailed just a step behind. The Count remained motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, the smile still on his face. As the servant advanced, the clank once again swung it gun arm up and the barrels whirled. It squeezed off the first round and the servant dodged, with even greater alacrity this time, but Velcoia didn't even flinch. Instead, she raised the arm with the cuff, and flipped a switch.

Ardsley heard a faint buzzing sound, and glanced at Melisande. She was rubbing her ear, and Gil shook his head like he was trying to dislodge an annoying gnat from near his head. The noise did have the same, mildly irritating quality of a stinging insect, and from the reactions in the room, everyone had the same impression.

Everyone but three.

"Herr Dolokhov?" Melisande sounded concerned in spite of herself. "Herr Dolokhov, are you all right?"

Dolokhov did not look all right. One set of hands was clamped over his ears, the other crossed over his chest, and he was doubled over, grimacing and clearly only restraining any vocal protest through sheer force of will. Gil turned, and for a moment Ardsley would have sworn he saw real concern on his 'master's' face. "Boris? What is it?"

Melisande had one hand on Dolokhov's shoulder, but stepped aside as Gil moved in. Dolokhov, meanwhile, tried to straighten, and couldn't. "The noise . . . ." He managed it through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry, sir, but it . . . ." He broke off with a grinding of his jaw and clamped down harder.

Melisande tapped Ardsley's arm, and pointed discretely across the room. While most of the other guests were reacting much as she and Ardsley and Gil had, the Roman, Valentine, had his hands as tightly over his ears as Dolokhov, looking as if it was taking all his willpower (and his wife's arm around him, supporting) to keep him from fleeing the room. To Ardsley's surprise, also attending on the Roman was the "American", looking almost as worried as the Signora. "Dolokhov, Signore Valentine," Ardsley murmured. "Just sensitive ears, or . . . ?"

A sharp exclamation from Gil drew his attention back to the main show. The noise seemed to be emanating from the device on Velocia's arm and she was now walking towards the clank, which was struggling to bring the gun to bear on her. Instead, it jerked, and twisting with a painful grinding of its gears, it turned, and brought itself to bear on the Count. He did not flinch, even when its weapon swung around to point at him, barrels whirling and clicking. Velocia, a strange amused smile on her face, raised her wrist again, and Ardsley heard gun arm itself.

"Enough." The Count gave a dismissive wave, and after a very long heartbeat Velocia worked another switch. The high-pitched buzzing sound stopped even as the clank slumped, inactive again, its limbs clattered useless at its sides. "This device, as you see," the Count said, "is a development only recently discovered-when set to resonate at the proper frequency, this crystal you see, a natural stone, creates a resonance. And that resonance appears to have a highly-detrimental effect on all unnatural, Sparkish technology."

Ardsley heard Gil's snort of derision, but he could also hear the murmurs in the room, speculative, tempted murmurs. Why not? Even if this one device was small and limited, that only meant someone would have to research it, see how to make it function on a grander scale, and who wouldn't dream of having a device that could disable all the Sparkish inventions that kept ordinary, un-Gifted nobles and would-be masters, even less-powerful Sparks at the mercy of the madboys? Or even just slow them down?

Melisande breathed a soft "_Bozhemoi_," and he saw the same thought in her eyes. No wonder the Count had wanted this kept from the Baron. No wonder England, whose entire existence depended on a single powerful Sparkish trick, had been left off the guest list. What could someone do with that device in the Glass City? Someone could disable Albia's control, force the city's systems to a halt, hold the lives of the entire population at their mercy . . . .

Ardsley shook himself, realizing that the Count was still speaking. A table, a large, round, green-velvet gaming table, had been brought in, chairs placed at even intervals around it. The glass case containing the device now rested at the very center, where the pot in a game of chance should be. One of the liveried croupiers took his place at the far side, racks of tokens and several decks of cards at the ready in front of him.

"So, my friends," Count Vercordi said, and you could have heard a pin drop across the gaming hall, "now you know the stakes of my game. It will cost each of you one hundred thousand marks to enter. The prize will be the table's pot, and sole ownership of my little device, to do with . . . as you see fit." There was a world of possibilities in that single brief pause. In the way the others-Gosego, Franklin, Lady Oyone, the Greek, even, Ardsley noted, the Countess Dragomirov–pressed forward in spite of themselves, they all had their own notions of what those possibilities were. Even Gil had a covetous gleam in his eye, and Ardsley was sure he was thinking of all the ways he could take that device apart and figure out just what that crystal did, and a way of turning it to Sparkish ends.

"Now!" The Count's voice boomed across the room. He gestured with dramatic expansion to the table. "Who will join my game?"


End file.
